The Osiris Song
by mnemosyne23
Summary: COMPLETED! When Fleur is faced with a tragic loss, she takes it upon herself to see the matter set right, and the danger be damned. BillFleur, with hints of RH. Rated for violent images, sensuality and a little language. Final 2 chaps. uploaded June 8
1. Prologue The Anniversary

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Prologue: The Anniversary_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


**SUMMARY:** When Fleur is faced with a tragic loss, she takes it upon herself to see the matter set right, and the danger be damned. Bill/Fleur.  
**DISCLAIMER:** Not mine! If they were, Bill and Fleur would have shared a hell of a lot more than one paragraph in "GoF." *nod!*  
**RATING:** R, for violence, language, and a few sexual allusions (though not many)  
**CATEGORY:** Angst, romance, drama, (a little) action  
**COUPLE(S):** Bill/Fleur  
**CANON:** Post-"GoF," set in an AU world that does not include events from "Order of the Phoenix" (mainly because, as of this writing, it hasn't been released yet) :-D For continuity's sake, **this story takes place approximately 4 years after GoF.**  
**NOTES:**   
I'm a die-hard Ron/Hermione 'shipper. Why do I mention this? Because there is SO MUCH wonderful R/H fic out there, I couldn't bear to try and compete. LOL! So I decided to try my hand at writing my SECOND favorite couple, Bill/Fleur. Just a heads up: **Fleur's accent is HELLA DIFFICULT to write**. LOL! God bless JKR for doing it, because I don't know how she kept her sanity. If it fades in and out here and there, please just go with the flow; I really am trying my best. But with a 9-6 job that has me stressed out of my mind 5 days out of 7, getting Fleur's accent 100% correct isn't something I'm going to agonize over. *giggle!* Please read and enjoy, and if you enjoy, please review! :) 

  


* * *

  
_"Bill?" _

The house was unusually quiet, bathed in an unnatural dark for late afternoon, but Fleur Delacour-Weasley wasn't fooled. It was their one year wedding anniversary, and if she knew her husband - which she did - then he was planning something very special to celebrate. 

"Bill?" she called again, shaking some errant Egyptian dust from her coat before hanging it on the appropriate hook in the entryway. For fear of losing their best curse breaker once he got married, Gringotts had given Bill and Fleur this modest, two-story home outside of Thebes as incentive to stay. They'd even offered Fleur a job as Chief Charmer at their Egyptian branch office; a position she'd willingly accepted. Bill had pretended to be an "arrogant fathead" for a month afterwards, never ceasing to comment on how "IMPORTANT" he was to the wizarding bank, and how much they couldn't afford to lose him. He would swagger around with an egotistical, utterly fake smug smile on his face, which would never cease to make her laugh. Fleur herself was expected to kiss the smile away - which she did without hesitation - and remind him that if she hadn't come along, he'd still be living in a one bedroom apartment in Cairo, so SHE was the important one in the household. Bill would pout, she'd kiss him again, and most nights they'd end up curled up and spent on the woolen rug in front of the fire, because they rarely made it to the bedroom. It became routine for them, though never boring, so that even after Bill had stopped overdramatizing his importance, Fleur found herself spending ungodly amounts of time with him on that rug. They were, as Bill's brother Ron liked to put it, sickeningly happy. 

"Bill, I am 'ome!" She set her purse on the kitchen table, and began to unbraid her long, silky, white-blonde hair. She wore it bound during the workday, as goblins seemed immune to her quarter-veela wiles and didn't care for their Chief Charmer walking around with a curtain of gorgeous hair hanging down her back. They seemed to think it was too distracting to their customers. "Where are you, mon coeur?_" _

When there was still no answer, Fleur giggled with excitement. Tiptoeing into the living room, she saw an envelope on the mantelpiece, and quickly scurried forward to pick it up. Tearing it open, she shook out the single slip of parchment tucked inside. **Upstairs**_ was all it read, but she recognized the playful, jaunty tilt of her husband's handwriting, and her heart fluttered. _

Twirling the note in her fingers, she floated up the steps to the second floor. A path of fresh red rose petals led the way from the stairs to their bedroom door. "Diable charmant,*_" she all but cooed as she followed the petals to the door. "Vat are you planning, Bill?" Stretching luxuriously, she laid her hand on the door knob and turned it slowly. Her voice took on a lazy, disinterested tone. "It 'as been a long, deeficult day, _Cher_. I zink you will need to work very 'ard to get zese knots out of my back..." _

The door swung open and she leaned in the doorframe, affecting the most dramatic, desirable slouch she could muster. Her husband was propped up in bed, blankets tucked up to his stomach but leaving his chest bare. He was leaning back against the headboard, head tilted in her direction, a faint smile on his lips. Rose petals littered the floor and all but covered the bed, like a velvety scarlet duvet. 

Fleur purred. "Zo?" she said smokily, stepping into the bedroom and slinking towards the bed. "Are you prepared to work, monsieur_?" She sat on the edge of the mattress, batting her lashes at him. _

Bill didn't answer. Instead, he tipped onto his side, face unmoving, eyes vacant and staring, hands frozen in a lazy curl. As though he'd fallen asleep without knowing. As though he'd been posed that way. Fleur stared at his face, and realized for the first time how pale it was in the waning light of the golden afternoon. 

"Bill?" she murmured, her voice shaking a little. When he didn't answer, she felt a burning lump of desperation rise in her throat. "Bill?" she tried again, adding to the question with a gentle touch of his shoulder. 

He was cold as ice. 

Tears sprang to Fleur's eyes. "No!" she cried, sliding off the mattress to land on her knees by the bedside, cradling his milk white face between her hands. "No, Bill! My Bill! Ne mourez pas, mon coeur! Queest-ce que je ferai?**_ Bill!" _

Her screams were in vain. Bill Weasley was dead, tucked naked into their marriage bed, the Dark Mark of the Dark Wizard burned into the back of his neck. He lay still as stone in his wife's arms as she sobbed out her anguish to the universe, and red rose petals spilled over the edge of the bed like blood. 

  
  
_TBC..._

*_Diable charmant_: "Charming devil."  
**_Ne mourez pas, mon coeur! Queest-ce que je ferai?_: "Don't die, my heart! What will I do?" 


	2. Chapter 1 Prisoners

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 1: Prisoners_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
**A MONTH AND A HALF LATER**

  
Fleur's eyes snapped open, instantly awake, but she did not sit up. She had been plagued by the same nightmare every night since the FIRST night, but it had lost its terror sometime after the second week. The fear had been replaced by a gnawing, bone deep grief that left her exhausted and shaky when she woke. In these first few minutes, she had found it was important not to move; movement expended more energy than stillness, and energy would have to be renewed, which meant she would have to sleep again. But she didn't want to sleep; sleep held no rest for her. Instead, she lay still and silent and stared blankly at her ceiling, trying to ignore the memories which haunted her like an attic full of restless spirits. 

The house was quiet as the rest of the Weasley family slept peacefully. Almost two months had passed since Fleur had found Bill dead in their bed, and her mother-in-law, Molly, had insisted the bereft veela move in with the rest of the family. It must have taken great strength for the grief-stricken mother to make that offer; Fleur knew that every time Molly, or Arthur, or Ron or the others saw her, they thought of Bill, and each memory of Bill could only be painful because there would be no new ones. She knew this because she had felt it as well. Each time she looked into Ron's face, or George's, or Fred's, or even Ginny's, she saw her Bill. _Son coeur_; her heart. Then the pain would come; a hollow, searing ache in her chest cavity, where her heart had once beat with such strength. She didn't think she had a heart anymore. The doctors assured her it was still there, but she only half believed them, and then only when the pain was too great for her to believe her breast was empty. 

After a few minutes had passed, she rolled onto her side with a sigh. If Bill had been with her, he would have rolled onto his side as well and wrapped a comforting arm around her, even in sleep. Instead, Fleur had an unobstructed view across the room to the simple window which decorated the facing wall. The moon was round and full, looking like a slightly tarnished silver pie plate. It cast an ethereal, luminous glow over the village of Ottery St. Catchpole. //So many people,// Fleur thought quietly, staring at the moon's face and deciding it looked like Bill. //Have they lost love, too?// 

She didn't know how much time had passed, but she must have drifted off again, because the next thing she was aware of was a hand gently squeezing her arm, and a soft, matronly voice murmuring, "Fleur? Fleur, dear, wake up. Fleur?" 

The veela rolled onto her back and gazed up at her mother-in-law. "_Oui?_" she murmured groggily. The moon had long since set, and the sky outside her window was painted the pale gray of very early morning. 

Molly seemed hesitant. There was something about the line of her mouth and the color of her eyes that told Fleur the older woman was debating sharing a secret with her. It was obviously quite a big secret, since the normally faint wrinkles around the Weasley matron's mouth were dark and deep. "I..." she began, then stopped herself, visibly debating. 

Fleur was curious now. "Molly? What iz it?" She pushed up on her elbows, refusing to break eye contact with the other woman until she knew the secret. 

Mrs. Weasley bit her lip, something Fleur had never seen her do. It was a sign of indecision, and Molly Weasley was rarely, if ever, indecisive. "I don't know if I should tell you, dear," her mother-in-law finally admitted. "I'm not sure how you'll react, and I'm not sure how I would react to your reaction, whatever it might be." 

Fleur sat up fully, letting the blankets fall around her waist. She was wearing one of Bill's button downs as a nightshirt; his long, lanky body meant that all his shirts swam on her. "Molly, please," she half begged. "Please, you mus' tell me. Iz... Iz it about... Bill?" 

When the other woman didn't answer, she knew it was. 

"Please," she said again, thoroughly begging now. She grabbed the other woman's hands and held them tightly. "Please, Molly. What do you know?" 

Something crumbled inside the older woman, and Fleur saw her features soften. "They've found him, dear," Molly said quietly, squeezing Fleur's hands in return. 

Fleur tilted her head, confused. "But... 'e was not lost." 

Molly shook her head. "No, dear. I didn't... I didn't mean they've found Bill." She sighed, then continued. "They've found the one who did it, dearest. They've found Peter Pettigrew." 

  
#################### 

  
Molly tried to stop her, but Fleur would not be stopped. She took just long enough to splash some water on her face, pull a comb through her immaculate hair, and dress in her most severe, fitted business suit - the one in ice white with a corset sewn into the jacket - before she stormed down the stairs, heading for the front door. 

Molly was beside herself. "Dearest!" she called out, catching at Fleur's arm. The veela shook her off. "Dearest, don't do this. Bill wouldn't want this. He wouldn't want you wasting your life on revenge and bitterness. Please, sweetheart, stay here. Let the Ministry handle Pettigrew." 

Fleur stopped in the doorway and spun around, eyes flashing. Her anger was not directed towards the kindly older woman, but Molly took a step back nonetheless. "Ze Ministry? What will ze Ministry do? Send 'im to Azkaban? Zat is too good for zat _monstre_." She shook her head firmly. "No. Zey will zend 'im away, and zen what am I to do? Will zey let me see 'im? Will zey let me ask 'im WHY? _Non._ Zey will keep me away, becoz zey KNOW zat I will kill 'im." Her hands balled into fists at her sides. "Zat is why I mus' reach 'im BEFORE ze Ministry can spirit 'im away _comme un voleur la nuit_!*" 

Molly looked close to tears. Fleur hated doing this to her sweet mother-in-law, but she could barely think, barely breathe, scarcely close her eyes without remembering how cold Bill's skin had felt against her palms; a sickening dichotomy to the warm silkiness of the rose petals that had covered the bed like a blanket. "Fleur, Bill wouldn't want this," the older woman repeated, though her voice sounded weak and distant. "He wouldn't want you to ... act like this." She reached out a hand and cupped Fleur's cheek. The veela didn't pull away. 

"He loved you too much to let you kill for him, dearest," Molly said softly, a sad smile touching her lips. "He loved you so much, I think it would hurt him to see how angry you are. You have to let that anger go, Fleur, or neither of you will ever move on." Her thumb stroked her daughter-in-law's cheek. "Don't you want Bill to rest peacefully?" 

Tears built in Fleur's eyes, threatening to cascade down her face at any moment. "_Non,_" she whispered hoarsely. 

Molly's brow furrowed with concern. "Why not?" she asked quietly. 

Fleur reached up and took the other woman's hand from her cheek. A few tears spilled over her lashes as she did so, making silvery tracks down her face. "Becoz I want 'im wiz ME," she rasped, hardly able to bring her voice above a whisper. "But zat ... zat... _rongeur**_ took 'im from me, and I want to know WHY!" Her fingers tightened around Molly's hand as she stared into the older woman's eyes with something approaching desperation. "Don' you know ze 'ell of NOT KNOWING? Don' you FEEL it? It burns, _oui?_ Burns 'ere," she pressed a fist to her chest, knuckles white. "Doesn' zat wake you at night, _Mère_ Weasley? Don' you want to KNOW?" 

Molly stared into the younger woman's eyes for an extended minute, and Fleur let her see everything. A month and a half's worth of nightmares and lingering regrets were reflected in the veela's eyes as her fingers bit into her mother-in-law's hand. 

Finally, Molly nodded; a single dipping of her chin. Fleur gasped with relief, unaware that she had even been holding her breath. "You go and you find out, Fleur," the other woman said firmly, squeezing her hand. "But don't you kill him, do you understand? Don't let him make you a murderer. He isn't worth that." 

Fleur nodded and released Molly's hand. Wrapping her arms tightly around her, Fleur murmured, "Zank you. I will be back zoon, _Je promets_, and I will 'ave ze answers. I swear it." 

Molly said nothing, but hugged the young woman in return. Finally, Fleur managed to extricate herself from the embrace and turned to fly out the door. 

It was dangerous to Apparate when your mind wasn't clear, or when you were overly emotional. Doing so could mean you would end up in a wall or under the sea. Fleur ignored the dangers and closed her eyes, thinking of where she wanted to be. It was a place she knew well; the safest place to house a criminal like Pettigrew. Azkaban was too obvious, and too easy a target for the Dark Wizard's minions to stage a prison break. No, the Ministry was being tricky this time around; they were taking no chances. 

The goblins would have to fall for her veela charms this time around, because she wasn't going to waste time explaining to them why she was at the bank. She was going to find Peter Pettigrew's "cell" if she had to tear Gringott's apart brick by brick, and God help any living creature who stood in her way. 

  
_TBC..._

  
*_comme un voleur la nuit!_: "Like a thief in the night!"  
**_rongeur_: "Rodent"   



	3. Chapter 2 Dos and Don'ts

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 2: Dos and Don'ts_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
"Honestly, do you think I don't know who I am?" Hermione Granger fumed, glaring over the counter at the Gringotts goblin who was stalling her progress. "I am Hermione Granger, charms expert for the Department of Magical Security in the Ministry of Magic. I am here to ensure that YOUR charms are strong enough to keep the prisoner securely incarcerated pending trial. I don't need to remind you that the Ministry deems this prisoner to be extremely lethal and at high risk for escape. You would like the world to hear about him getting out of one of your precious vaults, because your charms were too weak? You'd be losing accounts left, right and center!" 

The goblin glared at her. "No one sees the prisoner!" he barked. It was the same argument he'd been using for the past twenty minutes. 

Hermione was about to lean over the counter, grab him by his green ears and shake him from side to side in frustration, when a wave of dizziness so powerful it almost knocked her off her feet washed over her. She put a hand to her head and leaned heavily against the counter, looking over her shoulder to see what - or who - was causing the vertigo. 

The last person she had expected - or hoped - to see had just entered the building. Hermione felt her heart plummet to the soles of her feet. 

"Iz Urichai giving you trouble, 'Ermione?" Fleur asked calmly, gliding over the polished marble floor of the Gringotts lobby, eyes flashing an icy blue. "'E 'as zat problem wiz many people. It iz not in 'is nature to be 'elpful." 

"Fleur," Urichai rasped, and Hermione turned to look at him in amazement. The goblin was staring at Fleur with lovestruck eyes. It was disconcerting, seeing a soppy goblin. Rather than improving his hideous appearance, Urichai had begun smiling like an idiot, exposing his razor sharp teeth and making his face even MORE terrifying. //I didn't think goblins were affected by veela...// Hermione thought. 

Fleur didn't seem to notice Urichai's infatuation with her. She came to stand beside Hermione at the counter and gave the goblin a fetching smile. "'Ermione iz wiz me, Urichai," she said pleasantly. "We are both 'ere to zee zat ze prisoner is well guarded. Please, which vault is 'e in?" 

Hermione knew she should step in; knew she should stop Fleur from getting this information. But Urichai had already dropped a key into the veela's waiting hand. "Number 587," he all but purred, which was even more disturbing than his smile. "In the restricted section." 

Fleur gave him a devastating smile. "Zank you, Urichai. You 'ave been mos' 'elpful." Then she leaned over the counter, kissed him once on each cheek, and turned to Hermione. "Are you coming, 'Ermione?" 

Hermione nodded slowly. "Of course," she replied, watching the other woman's eyes closely for any betrayal of emotion. There was nothing beyond cordial curiosity. 

"Very well zen. Follow." Tucking the key into the breast pocket of her fitted suit jacket, Fleur strode purposefully away from the desk. Hermione had no choice but to follow. 

  
######################## 

  
Once they were away from the front desk, seated in one of the bank's plethora of carts, Hermione felt the remaining vestiges of dizziness wash away, as though someone had dumped a great bucket of cold water over her head, leaving her mind clear and her nerves jangled. "What was that about?" she asked angrily as Fleur steered them through the maze of tunnels toward vault 587. 

Fleur didn't look at her as she answered. "Goblins are not zo affected by my wiles as are men of uzzer species. I 'ad to try very 'ard. It worked." 

Hermione sighed heavily, rubbing her temples. "Fleur, you shouldn't be here." 

"Why?" 

"Why? You know why!" 

"Please, tell me again." 

Hermione paused for a moment, trying to think of a tactful way to make her point. "Because Peter Pettigrew has to live to reach his trial," she said softly. 

Fleur laughed. Hermione hadn't expected that reaction. "You zink I am going to kill 'im?" the veela asked, amusement evident in her voice. 

"Truthfully? Yes." 

Fleur shook her head and glanced in her direction. "I am not going to kill 'im," she assured Hermione. 

The other young woman gave her a suspicious look. "How can I be sure?" she asked. 

"Becoz I promised _Mère_ Weasley zat I would not." She paused, then continued. "I am going to torture 'im instead." 

Hermione closed her eyes. For a moment there, she had felt some hope. "Fleur-" she began, but the veela cut her off. 

"Do you know what ze _Cruciatus_ curse does to a body, if it iz uzed long enough?" she asked, as if in idle conversation. 

Hermione didn't answer. She couldn't make her voice work. She knew all too well what Fleur was going to say. 

"Ze joints, you zee. Zey pop. Ze bones, too. Zey stretch, zo zat ze victim, 'e feels like 'e iz going to tear apart from ze inside." 

"Fleur..." Hermione murmured, but the other young woman ignored her. 

"_Mon_ Bill, 'e was tall, _oui?_" the veela continued. "An 'ead taller zan me. When zey buried 'im, 'e was an 'ead again taller zan zat " She turned distant, unemotional blue eyes in Hermione's direction. "Do you know 'ow long zey tortured 'im? 'Ow long zat damage would take?" 

Hermione shook her head faintly, a lump of old grief burning in her throat. 

"Neizer do I," Fleur said quietly. "But Pettigrew, 'e iz going to tell me, and zen 'e iz going to wish 'e was in Azkaban, wiz jus' ze Dementors to 'urt 'im. I will stretch 'im like willows in ze wind, 'Ermione. I will make 'im ten feet tall." 

  
################### 

  
Being with Fleur in this raw, elemental state was not a new experience for Hermione. She remembered too well the grief that had surrounded the young widow like a fog at Bill's funeral. The veela were, at the heart of their power, extroverted empaths. They were able to twist the emotions of the people around them, making some love them passionately, while others felt nothing but loathing. Fleur, as a quarter veela, had only a fraction of that power, but when she was projecting, it felt like a hammer beating against your mind until you gave in. At the funeral, Fleur's tears had come slow and silent, but those around her had sobbed enough to put Noah's flood to shame, as the grief-stricken veela shared her pain. It had been an unconscious mishap, but Hermione could remember how her heart had seemed to tear brutally in two with each breath as she watched the coffin being lowered into the ground. 

Riding with her now, deep into the bowels of Gringotts, Hermione felt the young woman's emotions washing over her like a tide. She tried her best to block them out, but couldn't keep away the sensations of murderous rage and heavy-lidded fury that pumped through her veins like adrenaline. Part of her - the part that remembered holding Ron as he sobbed into her shoulder when they learned of his brother's death - reveled in the dark emotions. It would be so easy to raise her wand, aim it at Pettigrew's body and speak the words: _Avada kedavra!_ So simple. Too clean, perhaps; too quick. But so SIMPLE. 

She shook herself. "Fleur, please calm down." Turning to the other woman, she murmured, "Would Bill want this?" 

Fleur glared at her. It was an unpleasant thing, to be glared at by a veela. Her blue eyes felt like daggers. "What makes you zink zat Bill would NOT want zis?" she asked angrily. "What makes you zink 'e would want me to let 'is murderer live wizout pain?" 

"I know that Bill wasn't a vindictive person. I know that he wouldn't want you to become one, just on his behalf." 

Fleur shook her head, mouth set in a grim line, and looked away again. "Zen Bill did not know 'ow much I loved 'im." 

They said nothing after that, until the cart came to a stop in front of a nondescript door with the number 587 written on it in peeling gold leaf. It didn't seem like the kind of door that would hide a dangerous criminal like Peter Pettigrew, but like so much in the wizarding world, looks were deceiving. 

Hermione followed Fleur out of the cart, and quickly stepped around the veela to stand between her and the vault door. "I can't let you do this, Fleur," she said firmly. "It's my job as a member of the Ministry, but it's also my duty as a friend. I won't let you compromise yourself like this over someone as low as Pettigrew." 

Fleur barely seemed to notice her. The veela withdrew her slender wand and polished it on the sleeve of her suit jacket. "Move, 'Ermione," she said calmly. 

"I can't, Fleur. I won't." 

"Move, 'Ermione," the veela repeated, and this time, there was no room for equivocation in her voice. "If you do not move," here she raised her wand and pointed it, dead center, at Hermione's forehead, "zen I will move you myzelf." 

Hermione didn't let herself sweat. The urge to gulp was strong, but she fought that as well. "No." 

"MOVE." 

"No!" 

"'Ermione, I do not want to 'urt you!" 

"Then put down the wand and walk away! Fleur, you don't have to do this. We'll find out your information for you, I swear. Pettigrew won't have an easy time of it, if that's what worries you. He's done too much, affected too many people in too many terrible ways. He IS going to suffer. Please, don't put that blood on your hands. You're worth more than that!" 

For a moment, she thought she'd gotten through. Fleur stared at her silently, then slowly lowered her wand. Hermione fought the urge to exhale heavily. "Per'aps you are right," the veela murmured. "Per'aps…" 

"I am right, Fleur," Hermione said softly in return, daring a step towards the other woman. "Come on. I'll take you h-" 

She never got to finish her sentence. Fleur raised her hand, planted it on Hermione's chest, just below her collarbone, and pushed. With a surprised cry, Hermione stumbled backward and collided with the vault door. A surge of magic ripped through her, like a tornado scrambling her mind. She thought she screamed, but before she could be sure, she lost consciousness and fell forward, boneless, to the ground. 

  
** _TBC…_ **


	4. Chapter 3 Whys and Hows

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 3: Whys and Hows_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
Fleur had been Chief Charmer for long enough to know all of Gringotts' most complex and subtle traps as though they were second nature. It also helped that she had been married to a curse breaker, albeit for far too short a time. After tucking Hermione's unconscious body into their cart, she turned her attention back to the vault door and began to Spellcast. It didn't take long for her to get through the initial _Comasa_ curse, which was what had knocked Hermione unconscious. It was a common protection curse, used to stun and incapacitate would-be robbers without killing them. The young witch would be out cold for a few hours, but she would suffer no permanent damage. And in that time, Fleur would have the information she needed. 

The rest of the curses -and there were many - were equally simple to disarm. With each barrier that fell, Fleur felt her anger mounting. Anyone who knew curses and charms could break through these boundaries with ease. Yes, there were many of them, and the average wizard witch would probably give up before completing the gamut; but Fleur Delacour was not the average witch. Nor was Voldemort. Did they really think such things would keep Pettigrew's master from retrieving his pet? 

The final wall was the trickiest. It was pure black, solid as stone, with no visible door or mode of entry. It looked as though someone had built a wall of solid onyx and placed it between Fleur and her quarry. But even this was no match for the determined veela. It made no sense for the Ministry to make their prisoner inaccessible; if Hermione was right and they intended to interrogate Pettigrew, then they would need access to him, and it seemed a waste of energy to destroy and then rebuild a massive, impassable wall for each visit. 

A small, wicked smile flickered on Fleur's face. The answer was so simple, really. It was illusion, like so much in the wizarding world. Like the wall Bill had described to her, which separated the Muggle world from Platform 9 ¾, or the shifting bricks that opened the portal between the Leaky Cauldron and Diagon Alley. All she had to do was believe it wasn't real, and it wouldn't be. 

"Go away," she hissed, and tapped her wand against the wall. 

The wall began to swirl, and a portal appeared, like the top of a cyclone, leading into a very dark room with a simple ladder-back chair in the center. A column of dim white light shone down in a perfect circle around the chair, and the pathetic, rumpled, skinny man bound there by all manner of Muggle and Wizard bindings alike. Shackles, ropes, body bind charms. By the way he was sitting, she could tell that he'd even been frozen with a _Petrificus Totalus_ charm. 

She stepped through the portal, and it closed with a THWUP! behind her. "_Bonjour,_ Monsieur Pettigrew," she murmured, pausing just inside the entry and staring at the man in the chair. Her wand tapped against her palm. "Do you know 'oo I am? _Non?_ I find zat 'ard to believe, Monsieur. I find it 'ard to believe you would forget me, when you knew zat I would kill you someday. You must 'ave known that, _rongeur_. You must 'ave realized zat you could not kill my 'usband and not PAY for it." 

Slowly, she stalked towards the chair. Pettigrew didn't move, but she knew he could see her, and she made certain to exude as much malevolence as she could muster. She had an endless supply; it wasn't difficult. Had the _Petrificus_ curse allowed him movement, he would have been squirming in his chair. As it was, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. 

When she stood toe to toe with him, she bent forward at the waist and stared into his vacant eyes. "I 'ave dreamed of killing you, Monsieur," she purred, drawing the point of her wand down his cheek like a razor. "I 'ave dreamed of slow, evil tortures for you." She affected a sad tone. "I fear zat none of zem are pretty, Monsieur, and none of zem are quick. What do you zink of zat?" Leaning forward even further, she tapped her wand against his chest as she whispered the counter curse in his ear, freeing him from the _Petrificus Curse_. 

As she had expected, the prisoner began squirming as soon as he was free. "Please!" he begged as she stood back, disgusted to be in such close quarters with the man. "Please, you don't understand! I didn't do it!" 

Fleur snorted. "I 'ave a friend. Sirius Black. Per'aps you know of 'im? 'E 'as a good nose, zis Black, and 'e smelled YOU all over ze room where _mon mari_ was killed. 'E did not mention anuzzer wizard, but per'aps 'e was forgetting?" She paused to think for a moment, then shook her head. "_Non,_ it was you, and only you. Do not lie to me again or I will kill you." 

The animagus looked ready to faint. Fleur understood now why no guards had been placed on his cell; Voldemort would never risk a rescue operation for THIS pathetic creature. Too much risk for too little reward. "Please," he begged, "I swear, it wasn't me!" 

Fleur raised a disinterested eyebrow. "_Non?_ Zen 'oo did it? Tell me, and I will kill ZEM instead." 

"My Master!" 

"Voldemort?" 

Pettigrew winced at that name, but nodded vigorously. "Yes! Yes, it was him. HE killed Weasley!" 

There was a blinding flash and a cacophonous BOOM! 

Fleur stared down the length of her wand at the trembling man. "Do you know what zat was?" she asked, her voice soft and dangerous, like the sound of a python slithering. 

Peter swallowed and shook his head. 

"Zat was a warning," she continued. "A _Disparum Cadavo_ charm. I 'ave just shortened your life by five years." Pettigrew began shaking even harder, making the chair's legs rattle against the floor. "It iz _très illégal_, but zat means nuzzing. It iz not forbidden, _oui?_ Not like ze curses YOU uzed on _mon mari_; my husband." Pressing the tip of her wand between Pettigrew's eyebrows, she hissed, "If you ever speak 'is name again, I will take you down by ten years, Monsieur. Zen fifteen." She moved her eyes up and down his body in a searching glance. "Zat would not be 'ealthy, I zink, for a man such as you. You do not look like you will live zat long." She paused, then chuckled without mirth. "You do not look as if you will live anuzzer hour, unless you tell me EVERYZING I want to know. _Comprenez-vous?_" 

"Any… Anything," Pettigrew stammered, looking thoroughly terrified. 

THIS man - this sniveling _morceau de merde_ - had murdered her husband? The injustice was suffocating. That someone so low could murder someone as strong and good-natured as her Bill… 

Fleur's fingers tightened around the grip of her wand. "Tell me," she said through gritted teeth. "'Oo killed my Bill?" 

"V…Voldemort!" 

"'Ow?" 

"He… He possessed me. He took over my body and made me-" 

Fleur hooked her toe under the seat of the chair and tipped it backwards. Pettigrew went tumbling, and ended up sprawled on his back, still bound tightly to the chair. He cried out as his head hit with a sharp CRACK! on the stone floor. "You are lying!" Fleur hissed, moving forward to plant her foot squarely on his chest. "Tell ze truth, or I break you!" She ground her heel into his clavicle. 

"I AM! I AM!" Peter squealed. "My master, he is still weak! He could not do it without me!" 

Fleur stopped grinding her foot and glared down into the man's eyes. "Why iz 'e still weak?" she growled. "When 'Arry Potter met 'im during ze Triwizard Tournament, 'e was fully _régénéré_. Zat was over four years ago!" 

"But he didn't get to carry out the enchantment!" Pettigrew shrieked, sounding more and more like the rat he was. "Harry escaped before Voldemort could take his life force! The entire incident exhausted his energy; he's been spending the past four years rebuilding it!" 

Fleur squinted down at him. Finally, she gave a curt nod. "Very well." Stepping back, she righted the chair with a flick of her wand. "_Continuez_." 

The prisoner swallowed again, visibly shaken, but continued. "All the attacks during these in between years - all the tries at getting Potter, all the deaths - have been little reminders that V…Voldemort is still around. That he hasn't become incorporeal, like he was for those years after he killed Potter's parents." Fleur had to struggle not to blow his knees off when he said that. Pettigrew must have noticed her agitation, because he started to speak faster. "But he hasn't been strong enough to finish it! He needs Potter to become as powerful as he once was, but before he can take Potter, he needs to regenerate completely." 

"Why not use ze unicorn blood again?" 

"It would take too long. My Master is … not a patient man." 

"Your MASTER iz not a man at all," Fleur snarled. "'E iz a monster." Pettigrew didn't argue. "But you 'ave not answered my question. WHY _mon mari_?" She forced her voice to stop shaking. 

"My Master learned that W… That your husband might have been in possession of information that could help him regenerate completely in a very short period of time." 

"But 'e was not!" Fleur argued, gesturing wildly with her wand. Pettigrew was watching the slender rod as though it were the most terrifying thing in the world. Today, for him, it was. "Bill, 'e would 'ave TOLD me if 'e 'ad such a zing! 'E would 'ave told ze Ministry!" 

"So we learned." 

Fleur growled and aimed the wand at Pettigrew again. "DO NOT speak of what you did to 'im in zat way. DO NOT make it sound zo common. YOU MURDERED HIM." 

Peter shook his head. "It wasn't me! I told you, Voldemort took control of me!" 

"It was YOUR body!" Fleur snarled. "YOU joined wiz Voldermort of your own free will! Zat means it WAS you, _hybride_, and you will PAY!" 

"Please-!" 

"You 'ave told me nuzzing worth knowing!" she cut him off, ignoring him as though he were little more than a gnat. "What did your Master zink my Bill knew? Tell me!" She pressed her wand to his temple, digging it in until it made a deep imprint. "TELL ME!" 

The wand began to glow, and wisps of vapor seemed to ooze from the tip. Pettigrew screamed, and told her. 

************ 

"Wake up, 'Mione. Come on. Wake up." 

Hermione moaned and forced her eyes open. They felt heavy, as though someone had laid lead pennies on her lids. The first thing she noticed was the homey smell of yarn and baking bread that signaled she was at the Weasley house. The second was the familiar pair of worried blue eyes that hovered over her. "I'm awake, Ron," she managed to slur as he helped her sit up on the bed. Her head was spinning like a top. "What happened?" 

"You got between an angry veela and a rat bastard, that's what," he told her as he quickly scooted onto the bed beside her, one arm wrapped around her waist to keep her from toppling backwards. "You got hit with a _Comasa_ curse." 

Hermione moaned and rubbed her temples. "So I noticed," she said. Slowly turning her head to the side to face him, she asked, "Where's Fleur?" 

"Gone," a new voice answered. "We don't know where." 

Hermione looked up and instantly regretted it. The room - which had been spinning before - now began to lurch from side to side like a pirouetting elephant. She fell against Ron's shoulder and felt the young man's arm tighten around her. "Harry," she managed. "When did you get back?" 

Harry Potter looked almost nothing like the bright-eyed boy she had met on the Hogwarts Express so long ago. Years of peril had hardened him into a rugged young Auror. For the past three months he'd been in Transylvania, following a lead on Voldemort's whereabouts. He was the undisputed leader of the Aurors designated to find the evil wizard, rather than simply smoke out his henchmen, and he was VERY good at his job. Currently, he was leaning against Ron's bedroom wall, beside the open window, as though he'd sprouted wings and flown back to England to see his two oldest friends. His robes were smoke-stained and frayed around the edges, but months of scouring the rocky hillsides of Transylvania were bound to leave their mark. 

"Moody contacted me," he said, referencing Mad Eye Moody, perhaps the longest-lived Auror in the world. Few lived past twenty-five; the dangers were too many. Harry was twenty-one. "I apparated as soon as I heard we had Pettigrew." He pushed away from the wall and moved to kneel in front of her. He was very quick; she remembered the boy who had been the best Quidditch Seeker Hogwarts had seen in decades. "How are you?" he asked, a familiar spark of concern in his green eyes behind their invariable glasses. 

Hermione felt Ron's hand rubbing her side and sighed, feeling her body loosen against him. "I'll be fine," she answered. "I just need my head to clear a bit." She chuckled dryly. "Remind me to never get between Fleur and what she wants again, okay?" 

"That was a bloody stupid thing to do, 'Mione," Ron snapped, though she could tell from his voice he was more worried than angry. "It's a damned good thing we had that door charmed with about a thousand alarm curses, else you might have been down there till we next went down to check on the rat." He shook his head. "What if she'd REALLY hurt you?" 

"She wouldn't, Ron. She wouldn't hurt her friends." 

"Maybe not usually, but you know how she's been. You know she doesn't think clearly where… Bill's concerned." 

A pang constricted her throat for a moment, and she turned her head to press her face gently into the side of Ron's neck. "I'm sorry," she whispered near his ear, squeezing his knee. "I didn't mean to worry you." 

Ron shook his head and sighed. "I know," he murmured back. "It's just… all that's happened. Now Pettigrew." He shook his head again. 

"She didn't kill him," Harry interrupted quietly, and Hermione turned her attention back to the other young man. He always seemed nervous when she and Ron got this close; she suspected it was because he was afraid the same thing would never happen for him. Never mind that half the women in the Wizarding world would have given their eye teeth to have him look their way twice, and the other half would have been wild with jealousy if he had. Never mind that Ginny Weasley had harbored a crush for the dashing young wizard since she was a pre-teen. Never mind that Cho Chang had named her first son Harry Potter Davies. Roger didn't seem to mind. 

She shook herself and nodded. "She told me she wouldn't." 

"She did?" Ron asked. 

She nodded again. "She said she'd promised your mother she wouldn't." 

Ron rubbed his eyes. "Mum's just about off her rocker worrying about her," he confessed. "Blames herself, of course, even though she couldn't have done anything. Fleur would have gone anyway." 

"Still, I wouldn't say she did him any favors while she was there," Harry said, standing up again and crossing back to the window. "She might have left him alive, but he's going to have nightmares about furious Veela for the rest of his life." He didn't sound at all concerned. 

Hermione wasn't either. "What did she do to him?" 

"A _Memorio Retrievum_ charm. A bit like a backwards _Obliviate_ curse, only not as pleasant." 

Hermione was familiar with the spell. "She stole his memories? Why?" Pettigrew had killed Bill - why would Fleur want those memories when she already had plenty of her own? 

"That's what we'd like to know," Ron answered. "Did she say anything to you about what she was after?" 

Every hair in Hermione's head was hurting as she shook her head. "Only that she wanted to inflict incredible amounts of pain and torture on Pettigrew. It appears she succeeded." 

"Damn," Harry cursed, sitting on the windowsill. "Of course, we can't ask the rat himself because she stole the memories and didn't put them back." 

"Figging prickle," Ron muttered, and Hermione couldn't resist a smile at his attempt to mask his cursing. He was always self-conscious swearing around her. "Give me an hour with him and I'll have him singing the whole thing, with memories or without. Just one hour. ALONE." 

"And what would the goblins say?" Hermione asked sagely, patting his stomach. Ron had been Bill's apprentice at Gringotts, though he hadn't yet been reassigned to anywhere as lively and full of treasure as Egypt. The goblins, in an unusual show of charity, had allowed him to remain in England following Bill's death, as their go-between with the Ministry. 

"They wouldn't care. I imagine they'd be glad to see the little roach get some manners smacked into him. I think they hate him almost as much as Fleur. He cost them their most profitable treasure seeker." 

Ron was always more comfortable talking about Bill's death when he was describing how OTHERS felt about it, but Hermione heard the catch in his voice and decided to change the subject. "Do we have any idea where she might be heading? Any idea at all?" 

"I do." The three young people turned to look at the door. Molly Weasley stood there, three steaming teacups arranged on the breakfast tray in her hands. 

"Mum?" Ron asked, obviously puzzled. 

"I know why Fleur went to see that… horrible man," she continued, voice shaking a little. "She wanted to know why he'd done it. There was no reason, you see. Why would anyone want to harm our Bill? Why would they DO that?" She looked around, from one face to the next, her eyes lost. "God bless her heart, it's been plaguing her since it happened. And God help me, I wanted to know, too." She took a deep breath and let it out shakily. "So I let her. I let her go, and now I may have killed her. Or worse - I may have started it all over again." 

"What do you mean, Mrs. Weasley?" Harry asked gently. 

The look in Molly's eyes broke Hermione's heart a little more. She thought it had been shattered beyond repair when Bill died, but she'd been proven wrong too many times since then. 

"Isn't it obvious, dear?" the older woman said quietly. "She wants to know what happened, and that awful man wouldn't tell her. So she took his memories, and now she's going to go use them. But she has to go to the source." She sighed. 

"She's gone home," she continued, even quieter. "Back to where it all began. She's gone back to Egypt." 

  
  
_TBC…._

  
_hybride_: "Bastard" 


	5. Chapter 4 Dreaming Deeds Done

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 4: Dreaming Deeds Done_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
**A MONTH AND A HALF EARLIER**

  
_The screaming was something he'd missed. Too many years had passed since he'd been able to make someone really scream. He realized this wasn't normal, but he had never claimed to be normal. He was the preternatural wizard, unafraid of his powers and how easily he could control with them. Most of his magical brethren - though the description made his stomach curl - were afraid to give in to the singing in their blood. Tom Riddle had never shrunk from that voice; he embraced it, and it sang a new name into his ear. A powerful name, untainted by Muggle ancestry. _

"Where is the map?" 

Pettigrew's voice was thin and weak, but it was all he had available at the moment. True, he could have used one of his other acolytes, but he had chosen the animagus as his host for one simple reason. Pettigrew wouldn't betray him - he was too afraid. Fear was a valuable weapon, more reliable than trust. The slightest falter and trust could be shattered. Fear, when wielded properly, was eternal. 

The man writhing on the bedroom floor was lanky and tall, near naked save for a pair of black silk boxers. He had a familiar shock of fiery red hair that made Pettigrew's eye twitch in sympathy with his master's hatred. Just for spite, he held up the Cruciatus_ curse for a few seconds longer, not allowing the young man the opportunity to speak. When he finally released it, the wizard felt a thrill of pleasure when he heard the eldest Weasley son whimpering like a wounded dog. _

"This could be easy, Weasley," Pettigrew's voice echoed his master's words. "This could all be over, and you could be in that bed, waiting for your pretty wife to get home. All you have to do is tell me where the map is. I think that's quite a reasonable offer, don't you? One life for another. More than reasonable." 

The Weasley raised its head and glared through its mane of red hair. His lips were bloody from where he'd bitten them to resist screaming, only to fail. "Go back to hell," he hissed, voice hoarse from howling. "You're not getting anything from me." 

Voldemort clucked Pettigrew's tongue. "Tut tut. It's still early. CRUCIO!_" _

More screaming. Quite a pleasant sound; richer than past victims. Even Lily Potter's wails sounded reedy and thin compared to Bill Weasley. "You're stubborn, Weasley. You think I'll give up. What you don't realize is that I won't. I have no reason to. If you won't tell me, I'll take it against your will. Or maybe I'll kill your wife. Maybe I'll make you kill her." He laughed and released the Cruciatus_ curse, only to replace it immediately. "_IMPERIO!_" _

Like a puppet, Bill sprang nimbly to his feet and began dancing about like a prima ballerina. "Do you see, Weasley?" Voldemort chuckled with Pettigrew's voice. "I can make you do anything. I can make you take me to the map. But I prefer to do it the other way. I'm really not a bad man. When you show me to the map, I want it to be something you really, truly want to do, not something I've made you do. I want you to beg me to let you take me there. I want you to crawl on your hands and knees and grovel at my feet for the opportunity. Do you understand? CRUCIO!_" _

Bill went stiff, about to throw his head back to scream, but Voldemort held up Pettigrew's hand. "No noise," he whispered. Bill, trapped between the searing agony of the Cruciatus_ curse and the binding authority of the _Imperius_, stood still as a stone and stared at his tormentor. "That's right. Not a sound. Much as I like to hear you screaming, Weasley, it's giving this host a headache." He tilted Pettigrew's head. "Dance. It amuses me." _

Bill began to dance, a slow waltz. 

"Very good. I'm sure this is agony for you. I'm sure you want to scream. I'm sure you want to die. Dying would be preferable to this humiliation, wouldn't it? Dancing for your captor. This isn't difficult for me. I can do more. How would you like to make love to your beautiful wife like this? She wouldn't be any the wiser. Or perhaps I should reverse it. Perhaps I should do this to HER, while she makes love to YOU." He laughed. "Oh, yes, that would be PRICELESS. She's a quarter-veela, isn't she? I remember her from the Tournament. I think her screams might be better music than even yours." 

With a disinterested flick of Pettigrew's wrist, Voldemort released Bill from both curses and watched as the young man collapsed, sobbing, to the floor. The crying that came after the screams had never interested Voldemort. It annoyed him more than anything. 

"You're beginning to bore me, Weasley," he said with a yawn. "How long have we been at this? Surely your wife will be home soon. You've already gone through so much trouble for this anniversary party - the rose petals, the champagne. One year is it? I'm surprised you didn't snatch her up sooner. Certainly you don't want it ruined when I kill her, do you? You don't want this to go THAT far. All you have to do is tell me what I want to know, and when she comes home, Fleur can kiss it and make it better. Won't that be nice?" 

Bill made an indistinguishable sound. 

"What was that, Weasley?" Voldemort moved Pettigrew closer. "I didn't hear you." 

Another sound, a muffled whiffle. 

"Speak up." VoldeGrew crouched down beside the exhausted man. "What are you saying." 

With a speed that surprised even Voldemort, Bill reached out and snatched the wand from Pettigrew's silver hand. He rolled to the side and pushed himself up onto shaky knees, blue eyes flashing with renewed fire. "Stay away," he rasped. 

VoldeGrew stared at him, then started laughing. "What are you going to do, Weasley?" he asked, standing and dusting off his robes. "Kill me? You're far too weak for that kind of magic right now. And you wouldn't succeed. You might kill this host, but you wouldn't harm me, and I'd come back again. I'll keep coming back, Weasley, until you tell me what I want to know." 

"I don't know anything, you bastard." 

"But you do, Weasley, even if you don't KNOW you know. But I'll get it out of you. I always do." 

The fire was dying from Bill's eyes as he realized the truth in Voldemort's words. Still, he had not released the wand. 

"Give me the wand, Weasley." Voldemort held out Pettigrew's silver hand. 

Bill stared at him. 

"Give it to me," Voldemort said, more firmly this time. 

"You can't make me do anything I don't want to," Bill whispered hoarsely, eyes glazed but alert. "Not anymore." 

"I already told you, I don't want to do that anyway. All you have to do is tell me everything you know about the Osiris Song." 

But Bill shook his head. Slowly at first, then faster. "I won't tell you anything," he growled. "I won't give you anything." 

"Give me that wand!" Voldemort demanded. 

"No!" 

"NOW!" His voice boomed, overpowering Pettigrew's weasely snivel. 

Bill stood, remarkably fluid despite his protesting joints. "NO!" He raised the wand to his temple. 

For the first time, Voldemort felt his confidence falter. "Stop that!" he snapped. 

Bill smiled. "No," he said softly. "This is my choice, bastard, not yours. And I choose to leave you wanting. AVADA KEDAVRA!_" _

"NOOOOOOOO!" VoldeGrew howled as his wand flashed, and Bill Weasley collapsed, dead, to the floor. 

All was silent in the bedroom for a very long minute. When it was broken, it was by Voldemort's voice, not Pettigrew's. 

"Clean him up and put him in bed," the dark Wizard snarled through Pettigrew's lips. 

"B-But…" Peter stammered. 

"Make it look natural." The voice simmered on Peter's tongue and tasted like acid. "When his wife screams, I want everyone from here to London to hear her. I want to hear her. And I want her to know just who killed him." 

Making Peter's legs carry them across the room, Voldemort bent the man at the midsection, leaned down, and pressed Pettigrew's palm against the back of Bill's neck. There was a sizzling sound, like bacon fat in the skillet, and when the hand was drawn away, a black, smoking mark was burned into the cooling flesh. The Dark Mark. Voldemort's mark. 

"Bastard thinks he's won," the Dark Wizard snarled. "Not yet, Weasley. Not for long." 

They stood. "Be gone before the witch gets back." And without another word of instruction, he left his supplicant's mind and whisked back to his body, hidden somewhere in the Transylvanian mountains. He knew he couldn't remain there much longer. Potter was close; so close, he was almost tempted to take him, ready or not. But the time wasn't right yet; wouldn't be right for a some time yet. But soon enough. 

Back in Egypt, Peter Pettigrew barely noticed his Master's departing thoughst as he set about cleaning the blood off Bill Weasley's lips and hauling the taller man's body onto the bed. Redistributing the rose petals over the comforter, he rested the man's hands in his lap, propped him up against the headboard, and reached up to maneuver his face into a smile rather than a death mask. He didn't need to, of course. A shadow of the man's final smile still rested on his lips. Peter debated fiddling with it, but decided not to. The veela would be home soon, and he wasn't supposed to be here when she got back. 

After making his way downstairs - careful not to disrupt the rose petals along the way - he clambered out a side window and dropped nimbly onto the hardy desert bushes Fleur had planted around the house. Morphing into a rat, he scurried away from the house. 

He was less than a mile away when he heard the veela scream. 

************ 

**PRESENT**

  
The tears had run out hours earlier, but they were still damp under Fleur's cheek; they had soaked the comforter and had yet to dry. The bed still smelled like them - Bill's musky scent, like dry wood torches, mixed with Fleur's rosewater perfume. 

Roses. 

Yes, roses were there, too. Heaps and piles of roses, torn to pieces so their petals could be scattered like a blanket over her dead husband. No… No, he had done it for her. It had been meant as a gift, not a curse. She had been meant to love roses, not loathe them. HE had done it, not them. 

A dry sob hitched in her throat and she closed her eyes tightly, as if to block out the horrible memories she'd absorbed from Pettigrew's weak mind. 

HE had done it. Not them. 

The knowledge that Bill had committed suicide was almost worse than believing he'd been murdered. When she'd had someone to blame, it had been … not easy, but EASIER to handle the emotions. She could funnel all her malice and pain into despising Pettigrew and his Master. But now… Could she blame Bill? Could she blame him for wanting to end the torture? For wanting to protect HER? 

Of course not. 

So the pain grew and consumed her. All the tears she'd swallowed and sobs she'd internalized boiled to the surface and she found that she couldn't move as she lay here, curled like a newborn kitten on their abandoned marriage bed. A swarm of _Ifs_ attacked her: If she'd gotten home a little earlier; If she'd not gone to work at all; If he'd told them what they wanted to know; If Voldemort had killed him; If she could hate him for hurting her like this; If she hadn't loved him quite so much; If they'd never met at all... 

If, if, if, if…. 

Pressing her palms to her ears, she curled tighter, trying to block out the mocking voices that piled each new accusation on top of her like a suffocating blanket. _Cher Dieu_, she couldn't take this. The silence without him had been bad enough; this sudden flurry of angry demons was worse. "_Soyez silencieux,_" she begged softly. "_Mon Dieu, faites-lui l'arrêt….!_" 

_He died for you,_ they chanted in her head, and each voice was Bill's. _He died for you, he died for you, he died for you, he died…_

They were so overpowering, she almost didn't feel the gentle hand on her back. "It's all right, Fleur," Hermione murmured, squeezing the other woman's arm as the veela sobbed. "It's all right. Let it go. Shhhh…" Her own tears flowed like a river, though she wasn't sure if they were hers alone, or if some of them belonged to the heartbroken woman lying broken on the bed. She decided she didn't care, and they cried together. 

  
_TBC…._

  
*_"Soyez silencieux…Mon Dieu, faites-lui l'arrêt…!"_: "Be quiet… My God, make it stop…!" 


	6. Chapter 5 Ancient Stories

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 5: Ancient Stories_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
"I must find zis map." 

Hermione managed not to splash hot tea on her hand, but the biscuits were a wash. Cursing under her breath, she swept the soggy cookies into the trash bin as she responded. "Fleur, whatever this map is that Voldemort is after, we don't want to help him find it." She carried the tray - minus the cookies but with some good slices of bread and butter - to the table, where Fleur was seated between Harry and Ron at the round kitchen table. The two young men looked a little nervous to be seated so close to her - they were obviously afraid she was going to stun them and run out the door in search of vengeance, much as she had done to Hermione at Gringotts. Hermione wanted to smack the pair of them. 

"Yeah, Fleur," Ron agreed. "Whatever this Osiris Song is, if You-Know-Who wants it so badly, the last thing we need to be doing is finding it for him." 

Fleur looked pale and shaky, and her eyes were still red-rimmed from crying, but the deadly cold that had haunted her face when Hermione saw her in Gringotts was gone, replaced with a weariness that made Hermione's own bones feel heavy. The veela had described Pettigrew's memories to them, but the young witch knew HEARING the memories and actually SEEING them could never compare. For a moment, her eyes strayed to Ron, and she imagined how she would feel seeing him murdered in her mind, over and over again. A sharp pain stabbed her in the stomach, and she reached under the table to take his hand and squeeze. He glanced at her, a little surprised, then smiled and squeezed back. 

"You do not understand," Fleur said quietly, staring at the tabletop. "Zis song… I must find it." When she looked up, Hermione was struck by the desperation on her face. "Do you not know what it iz?" 

All eyes turned to the young witch, and Hermione felt herself blush. "Honestly, you all were in school as well," she said, shifting in her seat. "You should know, too." 

"That's what's so great about knowing you, Hermione," Ron said, grinning as he squeezed her hand again. "We don't need to know. All we have to do is ask you." 

She glared at him, and was pleased to see him blush. "Well, since SOME of us were obviously too lazy to pay attention in History of Magic," she said through gritted teeth, "I'll remind you." She looked at each person in turn. "You all know the story of the resurrection of Osiris, correct?" 

Fleur nodded, but Harry and Ron both looked like beached fish, searching for sanctuary. "Erm… Why don't you pretend that we DON'T, Hermione," Harry said. "Just… give us a quick overview." 

She arched an eyebrow. "Fine." She sat back and began to tell the tale. 

"Osiris was a god of ancient Egypt. He is best known as God of the Underworld, though he began life as a fertility god. He was well-liked by the people of Ancient Egypt, and myth states that his brother, Seth, became extremely jealous of his brother's popularity. Seth is generally considered a god of evil and confusion, so it's no wonder he decided to murder his brother out of envy. He was quite thorough, actually, and chopped Osiris into tiny bits, which he then scattered on the Nile, where they would - presumably - be lost forever." 

"Bloody hell," Ron said, making a face. 

"Yes, well, that's not where it ends." She took a sip of tea and continued. "Osiris was married to Isis, goddess of love and nurturing. When Isis learned of her husband's murder, she scoured the Nile for his body, and eventually found every piece. Well… Okay, ALMOST every piece. One… vitally important piece was missing, but she fixed that, so it hardly matters." 

"Which piece?" Harry asked, thoroughly enthralled by the story. 

Hermione blushed. "I told you, it's not important." 

"Then why're you blushing?" Ron asked, grinning. 

She gave him an evil look. "It was a vitally important piece of his anatomy. His MALE anatomy. There you go, I've told you now, and if you don't stop harping on it, you'll be praying to Isis to replace that same piece of YOUR anatomy, Ronald Weasley." She dug her nails lightly into his palm to prove she meant it. 

He swallowed and stayed quiet. 

Satisfied, Hermione turned back to the others. "Once she had him reassembled, she was able to raise him from the dead with the help of Anubis, and they conceived a son, Horus. Horus is the god most closely associated with the pharaoh - the living god, so to speak. Through him, his father's power was seen to be reborn, and while Osiris went to rule the Netherworld, Horus ruled on Earth." 

There was silence around the table. 

"Um…," Harry finally said. "So… What does this have to do with anything?" 

Hermione rolled her eyes. "The Osiris Song is, supposedly, the song Isis sang to guide Osiris' spirit back from the dead.* After all, you can piece a body back together, but without a soul, it's nothing more than an empty husk." She sighed and nibbled on a piece of buttered bread. "Of course, it's all nonsense. Nothing but a story." 

"Voldemort does not believe zat." 

The three friends looked at the veela, who had remained very quiet during the telling of the story. Fleur had raised her head, and her bloodshot blue eyes were remarkably clear. "Voldemort, 'e believes ze Osiris Song, it iz real. 'E believes it zo strongly, 'e iz willing to kill for it. 'E was willing to torture _mon cher_ for it." She looked to each face in turn. "My Bill, 'e killed 'imself zo Voldemort could not 'ave zis song. 'E did not need to die. It was not 'is time; zere were zo many zings left to do." Her voice went from wistful to steely in a heartbeat. "Voldemort, 'e stole _mon coeur_ from me." 

"Fleur," Hermione said gently. "Bill did what he had to do to KEEP the song - if it even exists - from Voldemort. Searching for it is only going to cheapen and nullify that sacrifice." 

Fleur turned the full brunt of her blue eyes in Hermione's direction, and the witch felt a shiver work down her back. The cold had not returned, but there was a determination in the other woman's gaze that scared her. "_Oui_, I know zis, 'Ermione." She nodded faintly. "But I am still going to find zis song. I am going to find it, and I am going to deztroy it, and Voldemort can weep 'iz bloody tears all over zis Earth, becoz 'e will not 'ave it." Her eyes flashed. "But first, I am going to sing ze song and bring my Bill back to me." 

Hermione shared a worried look with Ron and Harry. "Fleur," Harry said uncomfortably. "Hermione's right. This song… It's just a myth. If it were real, someone would have found it by now. Do you understand what it is? If this song exists, it would be the only known cure for _Avada Kedavra_…" His voice trailed off, and his eyes went distant for a moment. 

Fleur caught onto the pause and turned to the young man. "Wouldn't you do it, 'Arry?" she murmured. "If it wuz in your 'ands, would you deztroy it, or would you sing it? Would you bring zem back, if you could?" 

"That's enough," Hermione said firmly, determined to put a stop to the conversation. "Fleur, I know you're hurting. God knows we all are. But now you're hurting Harry, too. That's not like you; this obsession is killing you. You have to stop and move on." She steeled herself for what she was about to say, though she knew it had to be said. "Bill wouldn't like what you've become, Fleur. He wouldn't recognize his own wife. Is that really what you want?" 

The silence that shrouded the table was like thick fog, obscuring all sound. Even their breathing seemed muffled. 

"You may be right, 'Ermione," Fleur finally murmured, her pale hands clasped loosely on the table in front of her. Her voice was like a knife in the silence. "But I cannot stop. I cannot breathe wizout 'im." The tears had returned, and they flowed down the veela's white cheeks. 

"I would rather be dead," she whispered hoarsely. "Death iz better zen zis _agonie_." She took a shuddering breath and looked up again. "But if zere is a chance - one chance - zen I must follow it. Don't you zee? 'E died for me. To protect ME. _Mon ange_, 'e should 'ave let zem kill me. 'E knew I could not live wizout 'im." She looked at Harry, and her face broke down completely. "'Arry… _Mon Dieu,_ forgive me. I… I never meant to 'urt you. I am not as strong as you." She reached up a shaky hand to touch his cheek. "Your parents, zey zee you from where zey are, and zey are zo proud. Zey 'ave a son 'oo any muzzer would be blessed to 'ave." She swallowed and shook her head, speechless for a moment. "My Bill… What does 'e zee? _Une femme fieble_, lost wizout 'im." She sighed and looked away, out the window at the Egyptian sun. "I am going to do zis to prove to 'im zat I am NOT zat _femme_." She paused, then added, "And I am doing zis to steal Voldemort's _fontaine de la jeunesse_." Her jaw hardened as she said it. "I 'ope I make 'im zo angry, 'e comes for me in ze night. I will show 'im ze TRUE power of ze veela." Her knuckles cracked as she tightened her fist. 

Hermione was about to protest, but Harry broke in first. "Fleur," he said quietly, "you're wrong." 

The veela looked at him, obviously surprised by his statement. "_Ce qui?_" 

"I said you're wrong," he repeated. "When Bill sees you - and he DOES see you - he doesn't see a weak woman. He sees his wife, and he sees that she's hurting. But he doesn't think you're weak, and he certainly doesn't want you to go baiting Voldemort like this. Especially not for such a futile cause." 

Then Fleur did something none of them expected. 

She smiled. 

"You are sweet, 'Arry," she said gently, touching his hand on the table. "But you do not understand. Zis is not futile." 

"You're chasing a myth, Fleur," Ron reminded her. "I'd say that about defines futility." 

She shook her head and turned her smile in his direction. "_Non_," she replied. 

"I don't see what makes you so sure," Hermione interjected. "After all, if this song existed, someone would have found it by now." 

At this, Fleur's smile widened. "Zat is jus' it, 'Ermione," she said. "I zink I know where it iz." 

There was dead silence at the table for a very long minute. 

"Well why the hell didn't you say that in the bloody first place!" Ron exclaimed. 

  
_TBC…_

  
* **A/N:** The Song of Osiris is not mythological fact (there's an oxymoron for you ;) LOL!). I invented it for the purposes of this story. The rest of the tale, however, IS based in Egyptian myth . I tried to stay as true to the original legend as I could, but there are a good deal more intricate details than I mentioned above. For purposes of expediency and plot-relation, I skipped the more in-depth bits. If you're interested in knowing more, I suggest visiting , which is chock full of information about Egyptian mythology. :-D 

_Mon ange_: My angel  
_Une femme fieble_: A weak woman  
_fontaine de la jeunesse_: Fountain of Youth.  
_Ce qui?_: What? 


	7. Chapter 6 The Properties of Hope

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 6: The Properties of Hope_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
"Isn't this just a little bit obvious, Fleur?" Ron asked, frowning as they stepped into the abandoned antechamber of the temple. "Sure, it makes sense to me. If you want to hide something so no one can ever find it, put it somewhere they're all going to be looking for it. Absolutely. Makes complete sense to me." 

Fleur smiled. He sounded so like Bill sometimes. "Shh," she shushed him, before raising her wand. "_Lumos!_" she instructed, and the torches which lined the walls of the room burst to life, bathing the stone chamber in golden light. Like so many Egyptian tombs, the walls were decorated with hieroglyphs and detailed carvings of life along the Nile thousands of years in the past. Fleur felt a rush of nostalgia wash over her as she took in the rich details of the crypt. Bill had been so excited when his team had discovered this place. _"There's some special treasure under those flagstones, Fleur,"_ he'd told her the first night, as she stroked his hair in bed. _"I can feel it. It's in the air. Such old magic… It's all you can breathe. And the Eye carved onto the back wall… I've never seen one so big. They were guarding something; something huge. Whatever's there, it's going to make my career."_

It probably would have, if it hadn't killed him first. 

She shook her head to dispel that thought and moved deeper into the chamber. There in the center was the customary stone sarcophagus, engraved with a plethora of protection spells to guard its occupant. Inside she knew was the golden coffin that housed this tomb's mummy. But that was not what interested her. Instead, she bypassed the sarcophagus and made her way to the back of the crypt, to the enormous Eye of Horus that looked out over the chamber like a guardian spirit. She heard the others arrange themselves around the entrance, obviously loathe to delve deeper into the room. Fleur didn't blame them. Bill had been right - the taste of magic on the air was old and powerful. It made her tongue feel as though it had been coated with gold dust. 

"Zis is ze Eye of 'Orus," she said over her shoulder, never taking her own eyes from the immense painted carving which covered the entire back wall. "It was conzidered a symbol of protection." Her eyes ran over the fluid lines, painted blue and gold by ancient artisans. "'Orus, 'e was ze god of ze pharaos. Zat is what 'Ermione said, _oui?_ Ze living god." She turned around then, but rather than looking at her companions, her eyes focused above them, following the line of sight of the enormous eye behind her. "Zo why iz zis Eye zo big, when zis iz NOT ze tomb of a pharoah?" 

"How do you know it isn't?" Harry asked. 

"Zere are no royal symbols. No guards, no wardens. No servants buried wiz zere master." She shook her head. "No, zis iz ze tomb of a lesser noble, per'aps, but not a king." 

Bill's team had abandoned the site shortly after his death, out of respect, and had not yet returned to work despite the nearly two month interim. Why? It had never occurred to her before, but if this place DID house such an incredible treasure, why would Gringotts be keeping them away? The goblins were not known for their kindness, not even following the death of a loved one. Their hesitancy to send their curse breakers back to this place, their unusual generosity in allowing Ron to remain in England rather than shipping him off to fill his brother's shoes in Egypt… It didn't make sense. It smacked of foul play, or at the very least, powerful magic. Old magic. 

"I zink zere iz somezing 'ere," she murmured, taking a step forward as her eyes continued to scan the wall around the entryway. "I zink whatever it iz, it 'as been enchanted wiz a powerful charm zat 'as 'idden it in plain sight. Zo powerful a charm zat ze protection spell protects ITZELF." 

"What?" Harry sounded absolutely lost. "What are you talking about, Fleur?" 

"Ze Osiris Song iz very powerful," she replied absently. "Zo powerful, people 'ave searched for it for centuries. Yet no one 'as found it? I find zat 'ard to believe." 

"It must be very well hidden," Hermione reminded her. "If it IS real, the gods wouldn't have wanted just anyone laying their hands on it, correct?" 

Fleur shook her head, stopping her forward motion and staring at a glyph just above the entryway. "No, 'Ermione," she argued. "Someone would 'ave found it. My 'usband was very good at 'is job. 'E would 'ave found it. Do you zink ze gods 'ave ze power to disguise life? Zat is what ze Osiris Song iz. It iz life. It gives life, it renews life, it guides ze spirit." She reached up a slender hand, tracing the shape of the glyph in the air. "Even ze gods cannot 'ide somezing as strong as life. Not forever. Zey may be very good at tucking it away, at making all zose 'oo search for it suddenly lose interest. 'Ave you ever known ze Gringotts goblins to ignore a crypt such as zis for zo long? _Non_. And yet 'ere it iz, untouched. Powerful magic. Old magic. A self-prezervation spell." She shook her head, letting her hand drop but not letting her eyes waver. "But zey could not 'ide it forever." A faint, triumphant smile trembled on her lips. "I 'ave found it." 

The three companions turned and followed her gaze to the glyph above the door. It was an unusual symbol, rather like an abstract impression of a man. An imaginative mind could interpret the symbol as a figure with a large head atop outstretched arms, clothed in floor-length robes. 

"What's that?" Ron asked, perplexed. "It's just a squiggle, Fleur." 

Fleur shook her head, never taking her eyes from the chiseled cypher. "_Non,_ Ron, it iz more zen zat. It iz an ankh." 

"A what?" 

"An ankh," Hermione explained in a soft voice. "It's the symbol for eternal life." 

"It wuz a symbol of Isis," Fleur managed, though her own voice sounded weak and watery to her ears. "Ze uzzer gods, zey are shown wiz ze ankh, too, but Isis… Isis wuz ze Muzzer. Ze womb." Swallowing down tears, Fleur reached up towards the glyph again. It was too high for her to touch, but she could almost feel its rough hewn lines beneath her fingertips. 

"What does it mean?" Harry whispered, probably to Hermione, as if afraid Fleur would overhear. 

"Zey were an 'Oly Trinity," Fleur answered before Hermione could. "Ze Muzzer, ze Fazzer, and ze Son." Swallowing, Fleur clenched her fist until only one shaking finger was extended towards the ankh on the wall. "Muzzer." 

She pivoted slowly on her heel, her finger moving in a geometric half circle as she did so. When she came to a stop, she was pointing directly at the enormous Eye of Horus on the far wall. "Son," she whispered. 

"Where's the Father?" Ron asked quietly. There was an edge of anxious nervousness to his voice. He was beginning to believe. 

Fleur's eyes drifted downward, to the stone sarcophagus that dominated the center of the chamber. Osiris. God of the Underworld. The coffin, when grouped with the other two symbols, formed the peak of an inverted pyramid. 

She dropped her hand and let her eyes direct their attention to the sarcophagus. "Ze _Père_," she whispered. 

Silence reigned for a long minute. Hermione finally broke the uncomfortable quiet. "But … it can't be that easy," she murmured. "Can it?" 

Fleur didn't answer. Slowly, shakily, she walked towards the stone coffin. Her knees felt like jelly and her feet were numb. She couldn't feel the sandy stone floor beneath her feet; couldn't taste anything but the gold dust essence of old, powerful magics that lingered in the air like wisps of ancient memory. Voldemort couldn't have known - HADN'T known - that his answer was here all along. That the room itself was the map, with an arrow pointing to the very resting place of the Song. If he had known, he would never have tortured her Bill. If he had known, he would have killed her husband outright, and never have left a trace. 

Fleur reached out a trembling hand as she drew up beside the coffin, and rested it on the edge of the heavy stone lid. For a moment, she couldn't breathe. What if she was wrong? What if this was all a dream, or some perverse fantasy, making her believe things that were unbelievable, and try things that were unachievable? What if she pushed back that lid - by some inhuman power and with some unqualified strength - and discovered nothing but a shriveled face, dead for millenia and resting in peace? What if she opened this coffin, and released the evils of Pandora's Box? 

In that moment, Hope left her, and she was left to struggle with Doubt and Fear. 

Then, as quickly as it had come, the moment left her, and Hope returned. No, she WAS right. This WAS what she had come to find. When she opened this coffin, she would find what she needed. All she had to do was give it a push. 

"_Alohamora_," she murmured, though she knew it was a useless incantation to use in this context. The familiarity of the words made her feel secure. With a heave, she placed both hands on the lid and pushed. It slid away easily, as though it had been mounted on wheels, and tumbled with a shuddering CRASH! to the stone floor of the crypt. 

The light that followed was blinding. 

*****************************

Hermione had thrown a hand up to protect her eyes and fallen backwards when the flash near-blinded her, but as the light began to fade, she allowed her arm to drop. The first order of business was, of course, to make sure everyone else was all right. A quick glance to the left showed Ron dusting his robes absentmindedly as he stared around the room in agape wonder. A look to the right revealed Harry crouching near the floor, staring straight ahead, jaw hanging slack. Fleur wasn't immediately visible, so Hermione lifted her eyes to find the other young woman. 

And gasped. 

The crypt had disappeared. In its place was a sumptuous throne room, perfectly square and immense in proportion. The chamber was crafted of blush marble, creamy ivory, and gold so pure it seemed liquid as it flowed effortlessly between the seams of marble wall slabs and around the bases of ivory columns. The floor was made of the same rosy marble as the walls, but it had been polished to such a high sheen, Hermione was afraid to stand for fear she'd slip and fall. It felt smooth as glass beneath her palms. The only aspect of the tomb which remained in this lavish hall was the stone sarcophagus, still unlidded and looking decidedly dusty and shabby in its newfound surroundings. 

But the grandeur of the throne room was only of cursory note to the young witch. The focus of her attention - indeed, the focal point of the entire room - was the woman seated in a gilded throne on a raised dais not more than twenty feet away. The throne was a sight to see, fashioned of hammered gold and draped in swaths of crimson velvet. Gauzy curtains surrounded the seat, hanging from unseen rafters and fluttering in an unfelt breeze. The ceiling of the chamber seemed to stretch up into infinity, until the roof was lost in white. Whether that was because her eyes couldn't adjust to the mammoth distance from floor to ceiling, or because the ceiling was actually lost in a haze of clouds, Hermione couldn't determine. 

Even more immaculate than the throne, however, was the woman who sat upon it. She had the easy posture of someone who was used to living amidst such opulence, and she didn't seem the least bit surprised that four dusty, disheveled travelers had tumbled unceremoniously into her royal home. She was clothed in a sheath dress of fine Egyptian linen; so fine it was nearly transparent. A heavy necklace of slim gold plates, shaped like ever-growing half moons, rested over her chest like a breastplate, studded along the edge of the outermost plate with decorative turquoise. Woven sandals of what looked like spun gold were on her feet, laced up to the knee. Glossy black hair hung in finely plaited braids down her back, each braid no wider than a pencil. Some locks spilled over her shoulders, looking like the edge of nightfall encroaching on the sun of midmorning as they rested on her golden necklace. Her skin was the perfect olive tone of Egypt, sculpting a face that was so impossibly beautiful, Hermione's internal thesaurus was strapped for a word worthy enough to describe it. 

And then there were her eyes. Black eyes; the purest black. Not brown so dark it seemed to be black. Not blue so hard and flinty it passed as black. Pure coal black, with pupils even blacker; irises framed by whites so white, they almost glowed. 

No one could speak; no one even tried. 

Finally, the woman's dusky pink lips curved into an amused smile. "You are surprisingly quiet," she said, and Hermione felt all her tensions, anxieties and fears melt away at the sheer kindness in that voice. "Are you afraid?" 

Hermione felt her jaw working but no sound was coming out. To her left, she heard Ron answer, "N… No, ma'am. Lady. Your Highness." 

The Goddess smiled. "Isis, child," she said gently, and the way she said _child_ made Hermione feel as though this woman truly was her mother. "And you would be Ron." 

Hermione heard Ron choke. "How… How do you know my name?" he asked. 

Isis' lips curled into an even brighter smile. "I know each of you," she said, as though it were obvious. "Ron Weasley." Her eyes glanced to Hermione, and she nodded. "Hermione Granger." Then on to Hermione's right. "Harry Potter." Then up a bit, looking over their heads to a point behind them. "Fleur Delacour." 

For the first time since raising her head in this room, Hermione looked away from the vision seated on the throne and craned her head around to peer over her shoulder. Fleur was, indeed, standing behind them, though how she had gotten behind them when she'd been in front of them earlier wasn't a question Hermione felt like battling with at the moment. The quarter-veela's body language was enough to prove that she was just as enthralled by their divine hostess as the others were, but Hermione saw an unusual spark in the other woman's blue eyes. "Weasley," Fleur added. "Fleur Delacour-Weasley. You forgot." 

Hermione swallowed and quickly looked back to the woman on the throne. She didn't have much - well, okay, ANY - experience with deities, but she didn't think correcting a goddess with your first sentence was going to make a good impression. But Isis didn't seem bothered. If anything, her tender expression seemed to soften even more. "No, child, I did not," the goddess soothed. "But I had to be sure you remembered, or else nothing that may happen here will come to pass." 

Moving with the fluid grace of a cat, Isis rose from the golden throne and the gauzy curtains parted before her, as though tossed by a summer breeze. Hermione saw that, in addition to her broad necklace, the goddess also wore a gold ankh on a long woven chain which hung down past her navel, to rest on her lower belly. As she walked, it swayed slightly against her stomach. "I always knew someone would find the song," she said, gliding effortlessly down the three steps which led from her dais to the main floor of the throne room. "Others did not think it would happen. I remember Anubis felt it particularly unlikely." A nostalgic smile touched her lips. "They never understood how tenacious children can be." 

As she spoke, she had been walking purposefully towards the stone sarcophagus, which stood to the right of her throne. She stopped there now, cupping her hands over the edge of the coffin and gazing down into it; not looking for something, but remembering. "But I knew," she murmured, silky hair glowing blue-black in the golden illumination of the torches which lined the walls. "I always knew the song would be found. That someday, a creature would come with such need of it, such desire for it, even our spells would break before their Hope." Looking up from her study of the coffin, she looked over her shoulder at them and smiled. "Hope is the cure of all ills, did you know that? It is a knowledge that escapes most, but the wisest understand its simplicity. With Hope, single men can defeat armies, and lost children can find their way home in dark forests. Hope is the harbinger of true love. Hope can shake the pillars of creation." She laughed quietly and turned back to the sarcophagus. "Hope can even undo the words of the Gods." 

Hermione didn't know what to say. None of this seemed real. She felt as though she were in a waking dream, and any moment she would open her eyes to find herself tucked into bed, perhaps with Ron's lean arms wrapped snugly around her midsection as he spooned against her back. But as more seconds ticked by, she began to realize that this was not a dream. She was NOT going to wake up, this WAS really happening, and while Ron was here with her, they were in the presence of a GODDESS. Her mind couldn't comprehend it, and her tongue refused to cooperate. 

"I am ze first?" Fleur seemed to be the only one among them capable of voicing anything coherent. Hermione marveled at her calm. "No uzzers 'ave come before?" 

"Others have sought," Isis replied. "None have found. Their cause was not sincere enough, their Hope not strong enough. None of them were true believers." 

"But I am?" 

Isis turned then, a motherly smile on her lips. "Child, you would not be here if you were not. The ache in you made you believe, and that belief made you hope, and that Hope brought you here." She gestured with a slender hand, incorporating the throne room, but also all that lay beyond. "Do you know where this is?" 

Hermione finally found voice enough to answer the question with one of her own. "The Netherworld?" 

Isis looked at her and smiled kindly. Hermione felt all her nervousness flooding away, replaced by a kind of comfortable lassitude, like curling up in bed with a fuzzy quilt. "No, young one," the goddess replied, "though you are almost correct. This is neither the Underworld nor the Mortal Plane. This is the Waning; the In-Between place." She laid a hand on the sarcophagus. "This way leads to my husband's realm." She gestured up, to the fuzzy white expanse above them that constituted a roof. "And there lies the way back to corporeal life." 

A flurry of motion caught Hermione's attention, and she turned her head in time to see Fleur rush by, headed for the sarcophagus. "Bill!" she cried as she reached the stone slabs of the coffin. Planting her hands on the edge, she leaned forward and shouted again. "BILL!" Her voice ricocheted around the inside of the stone casket, as though she were yelling down a deep, empty tunnel. Hermione felt the bottom fall out of her stomach as she realized that that was precisely what Fleur was doing. The idea of leaning over a bottomless coffin which was the mouth to an unobstructed tunnel to the Underworld was not a thought Hermione wanted to linger on for long. 

Isis laid a hand on the frantic veela's back. "Shhh, daughter," she soothed, stroking Fleur's silvery hair. "The path leads only one way, and only the dead may walk it. Your love cannot hear you." 

Fleur's knees crumpled and she slumped beside the sarcophagus, fingers still clenched around the stone rim. "Please," she begged softly, eyes squeezed shut. "Please, tell me ze Song. Please, I must 'ave it. I must sing it…!" 

Isis knelt beside the coffin, one hand gently stroking Fleur's tense arm. "Why, child?" she murmured. "Why do you need the Song so badly?" 

"I love 'im." 

"Love is a good reason, but it cannot be enough. Tell me the rest." 

Hermione found herself leaning forward in her position seated on the floor. For what felt like the first time, she became aware of the two young men who flanked her on either side. Ron was watching with wide-eyed fascination, while Harry only sat quietly, his green eyes burning with startling intensity. She thought back for a moment to the conversation at the kitchen table, and wondered if Harry wished he were the one crouching by the coffin, telling the goddess his reasons for needing to sing the Song. 

Fleur took several moments to answer the question, and when she did, it was almost inaudible. "Becoz 'e loved me," she whispered. 

************************

Isis continued to stroke Fleur's hair tenderly, occasionally fingering the locks and smoothing them down, like a mother with a sad daughter. "He was not the only one, child," the goddess murmured. "There are many others; more than you know. These three love you." She gestured back to Harry, Ron and Hermione. "They are not alone." 

Fleur shook her head, almost petulantly. "Zat iz not what I mean," she corrected softly. 

"Then what do you mean, young one?" 

For a few seconds, Fleur didn't answer. She pressed her cheek against the stone side of the sarcophagus and tried to steady her swirling thoughts. Then, finally, she answered. 

"Bill loved me," she whispered. "'E loved ME. 'E did not love ze veela in me. 'E did not love my 'air or my eyes or my lips. 'E did not love zat I was beautiful and zat ze uzzer men envied 'im for 'aving me. 'E did not love any of zat, and if 'e did, zey were not all zat 'e loved." She laughed softly, but it came out sounding like a quiet cough. "'E was ze first man to say no to me when I asked 'im to dinner." An affectionate smile warmed her lips. "'E said I wuz too young for 'im. Too young." She laughed again, more surely this time. "I 'ad never 'ad ZAT before. It made me want 'im." She shivered, dragging her hands down from the lip of the sarcophagus and hugging herself. "I never stopped wanting 'im, even when I 'ad 'im." 

She looked past Isis to the throne; not really looking at it, but using it as a focal point to organize her thoughts. "No uzzer man 'as ever loved me becoz zey zought I wuz funny. Bill says I make 'im laugh, and zat 'e loves zat about me. 'E says zat I can't cook, but zat 'e loves to cook for me, and I 'ave never 'ad zat before, eizer." She shivered, squeezing her eyes shut and hugging herself tighter. "'E made me believe zat I wuz truly beauteeful, and zat it wuz not just a spell I cast. 'E told me 'e loved me, and I believed 'im." 

Curling in on herself, she pressed her forehead against her knees. Isis' hand still moved in comforting strokes up and down her back, and it gave her strength to continue. "Veela do not find ze men zey love; ze choices are too many. Ze men find ze veela. It iz ze only way. It only 'appens once - ze bond iz for life. Did you know zat?" Of course she did. Isis was a goddess. But Fleur didn't care if she was speaking nonsense. "My grandmuzzer… She wasted away wizout my _grand-père_. 'Er 'air turned from cornzilk to rafia. 'Er skin wuz brittle az dry paper. I remember 'er eyes… Zey were… 'Ow you'd say? Rheumy? Clouded. Az if she forgot 'ow to zee." Sighing shakily, Fleur let her hands fall from the edge of the coffin. They landed in her lap, limp. "I did not understand, at ze time, 'ow she could be zo radiant in one moment, and zo broken in ze next. I zought she wuz weak." Shivering, she hugged herself. "I wuz wrong." 

"You are afraid of losing your beauty?" the goddess asked softly. Fleur shook her head. "Then what, child? I still do not understand why you, above all others, deserve the song." 

Fleur sighed, pressing her forehead against the sarcophagus. "Becuz 'is babies should know zere _père_," she whispered, so that she was almost inaudible. "And becuz I zink I may die before zey even get ze chance to try." 

"Oh…!" Hermione gasped. 

Fleur felt the deity's cool fingers lift her chin, and found herself looking into Isis' eternal black eyes. The goddess was smiling. "That, child," she murmured, "was what I hoped you would say." 

  
_TBC…_


	8. Chapter 7 Willing to be Worshipped

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 7: Willing to be Worshipped_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne  


_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

  


* * *

  
For a moment, Fleur was so shocked, she couldn't speak. All she could do was stare into the goddess' radiant face and pray. 

"The Song of Osiris is not to be used lightly," Isis explained, still kneeling before her on the floor. "It cannot be sung by any and all who grieve; the chosen few must pass the preordained tests. First, the Test of Purity - is their hope strong enough? Second, the Test of Self - do they know themselves? You answered that, child," she added, at Fleur's confused expression, "when you corrected my pronunciation of your name." She smiled and stroked Fleur's cheek. "Just as you've now completed this test, the third test. The Test of Truth - does the chosen One know the core of their need." 

"I don't understand…" 

"To sing the Song," Isis explained, as Fleur trailed off, "the Singer must be acting outside their own self interest. This does not mean they won't benefit immensely from singing the Song, but they will not be the only one to benefit. The _true_ Chosen will gain back the loved one they lost, but in the purest of cases, it is the loved one himself - or herself - who will reap the greatest rewards. And so it is with you. While you will regain the love and companionship of your husband, your husband will be doubly richened. For he will be reunited with you, and he will live to meet his children. Likewise, your children will grow to know their father. It is a threefold prize." A benign smile lit her face. "It is a mirror of the Trinity: Mother, Father and Child. No sign could be clearer that you, Fleur Delacour-Weasley, are meant to sing the Song." 

Fleur struggled to breathe. To have come so far, suffered so much, only to have everything falling into place… It was like a dream. A wonderful, horrible dream that would be gone like morning mist if she so much as blinked. Her eyes were beginning to burn as she fought to keep them open. "Zen… Zen I may 'ave it?" she murmured, hands clenching into fists on her lap. 

Isis smiled benignly and nodded. 

Fleur burst into fresh tears, falling forward to bury her face in the goddess' perfumed hair. "_Merci_…!" she gasped, leaning down to kiss the deity's hand and press it to her heart. "_Merci, ma déesse! Je ne peux pas rembourser…!_" 

Isis stroked her hair kindly. "Shhh, young one. I have done nothing. It is YOU who have made this moment possible." The goddess' cool fingers tilted Fleur's chin up, and the veela could just make out the warm intensity of her coal black eyes despite her own haze of tears. "I believe this young man is the luckiest in a great many years, to have one who loves him so much." 

"_Non, ma déesse_," Fleur disagreed, shaking her head and blinking away her tears. "I am ze lucky one." 

Isis said nothing, but stroked Fleur's cheek and stood, pulling the tearful quarter-veela to her feet. "Are you ready?" she asked. 

Fleur nodded. "_Oui_, my goddess." Her eyes cast about the sumptuous throne room. "Where iz ze melody?" 

Isis shook her head. "It is not written, Fleur, nor is it scribed in stone." She touched her fingertips to Fleur's temple. "The Song rests here," her hand moved down to rest over Fleur's heart, "and here." 

Fleur squinted in confusion. "I… I do not understand…" 

"The Song of Osiris is LIFE, young one," Isis explained. "Life is not the same in all people. Every person who walks this world, who has walked it in the past, and who will walk it till eternity comes will lead a new and different life. For each person, the Song is written anew." She moved back a step, slender arms coming to rest at her sides, onyx eyes clear. "This is what you must do, Fleur. You must sing Bill's Song, note for note, to the last tremor of the chorus. You must have it right, or you will summon another being back from the dead, and you may only sing once." She bowed her head. "These are the rules, as set down by my husband, the Lord Osiris, when time was young." 

Fleur stared at Isis, mouth agape. 

"But… That's impossible!" she heard Hermione exclaim from the sidelines. 

"No," Isis responded. "It is not." 

"But how is anyone supposed to know anyone else's song?" Ron jumped in. "For that matter, how are we supposed to know our OWN?" 

"To sing one's own Song would reinvigorate the spirit and soothe the soul," Isis explained. "It is a difficult skill to master, but not impossible. Yes, to sing another's Song is difficult, like damming the Nile with a single pebble. But if that pebble is placed in the proper position, it will catch silt, and that silt will slowly build into a natural dam. So what is thought impossible is revealed to be merely very, very difficult." 

In the blink of an eye, the goddess was once again in front of Fleur, gazing into her eyes. "You have the kernel of the song inside you, Fleur." She placed a palm in the center of the quarter-veela's chest. "The pain you have carried since Bill left you. Have you never wondered what it was?" 

Fleur shook her head faintly, enraptured by the goddess' face. 

"It is HIS SONG," Isis explained, smile radiant in her luminous face. "When he died, he left a piece with you, to guard you and protect you. It is often so, with those who die prematurely. They fear so much for those they leave behind, they cannot bear to go away entirely. And so they linger, as memories, as smells, as snatches of half remembered verse." She pulled her hand away from Fleur's chest, and Fleur gasped to see a column of pure white light extending from the deity's palm to her own bosom. 

"The Song pains you because it is not yours," Isis continued. "It is being played on the wrong instrument, and so it becomes discordant and crass. It wants to be released, so it may reunite with its soul." The column of light began to weave around Fleur's body, coiling first around her head and then down her body, until she was sheathed in its glow. "All you need to do is sing your pain, child, and you will not fail." 

Warmth spread through Fleur's body, from head to foot, and she felt herself loosen underneath its gentle touch. The pain that had roosted in her chest for so long seemed to have disappeared, but she knew that wasn't the case. It was swirling around her like a light storm. Somehow, it was not so frightening now. It was beautiful. She was looking at Bill's Song, and it was pure white, like new driven snow. 

"Know this, Fleur Delacour-Weasley," Isis suddenly said, interrupting Fleur's reverie. The goddess' voice had lost its lilting quality, and was now deathly serious. "It is not the place of ordinary mortals to return life where it has been removed. That is the realm of gods and demons. It is a heavy burden, not to be taken lightly. If you are to sing this man's Song, you must be prepared to shoulder the burden as a god must endure such a load. You must be ready for worship." She paused and fixed Fleur with a firm stare. "Are you willing to be worshipped, child?" 

Fleur swallowed. She didn't entirely understand that speech, but was too afraid to say so. What if Isis believed her unwilling to sing? She couldn't come so far only to fail now. _Willing to be worshipped…._ That didn't sound so bad. She had been treated like a goddess - wrongly or rightfully - most of her life. She could endure it again, if it meant she would have her Bill back. 

Slowly, she nodded. "_Oui_, my goddess," she murmured. "I am willing." 

Isis nodded. "Then sing, child." Her familiar smile reappeared. "He is waiting." 

Fleur could hardly breathe. How did she begin? Words and melodies jostled for dominance in her mind, but she knew none of them were correct. None of them sounded like Bill. She could only sing once - there were no second chances; no childish take backs. The Song had to be correct, from first note to last. 

Raising a shaking hand, she pressed her palm over the center of her chest, in the same place Isis had touched earlier, so that her hand was bathed in the white light of Bill's Song. She felt a low ache reverberate in her bones as the familiar pain of his death returned, soaking into her marrow. 

Tilting her head back, she opened her mouth and began to sing. 

********************

In later years, Hermione would be hard pressed to describe the heartbreaking purity of that first note. No other sound compared to it, except, perhaps, the sound of a drop of water crystallizing at the tip of an icicle. It was high and clear, like a perfect silver flute, but not so reedy. Like a crystal clarinet, but not so deep. Like a virginal soprano at the opera, but not so bold. 

In the end, she would have to depend on similes that had nothing whatsoever to do with sound, because none applied. "It was like crystal," she'd say. "Pure Austrian crystal. Not the sound of crystal - it didn't ring like that. It sounded like crystal LOOKS. So clear you have to call it white, because no other color really fits. Do you understand?" 

"Like a trickle of glacial water on a shady granite boulder," she'd continue, when the first symbol failed to register with her audience. "Not because it's cold, because it wasn't. It was warm. But so CLEAR. So fresh and pure, but earthy. Can't you hear it?" 

When they couldn't, she'd shake her head with frustration. "No, no," she'd vent. "You're not listening close enough! It was like a fern uncurling in a sun dappled forest. Or an eagle coming to land on the highest eyrie. It was the sound of cirrus clouds melting and reforming, over and over and over again." 

When the first note still eluded them, she'd throw her hands in the air and say, "You could never understand, then! You could never know!" 

_But the rest of the song!_ her audience would plead. _Describe it to us. Please?_

And she would. She'd tell them how it moved from that first breathtaking note, then plummeted down, like a mighty river falling over the precipice of a surging waterfall. But instead of crashing to an end in a boiling whirlpool, the song rose again, like fine spray at the base of Victoria Falls, that drenches even as it summons eternal rainbows. Slowly, the misty song settled, coursing with the river down deep granite canyons and through shady forest rills. It was a wild song, tamed only by the weight of the wilderness that surrounded it. 

"It was a strange thing," Hermione would tell them, in a quietly awed voice as she relived the moment. "It sounded like Bill. Not like his voice - nothing so concrete as that. But as I listened to it… This will sound silly, but I swear it's true. When I heard it, I saw his eyes. Bill always had the most amazing eyes. They were brown, but not chocolate brown or coffee brown or some other stereotypical shade. They were faceted, so that in some lights they seemed green, or gold. When it was cold, they'd almost turn blue. I suppose you could call them hazel, but that doesn't describe them." She'd shake her head. "No, his eyes were indescribable. A little wild, adventurous. Like his spirit, I imagine. Like his soul. They were remarkably clear windows, if you ask me." She'd smile, lost in thought. "I'll always remember that, clearest of all. Standing there, surrounded by all this rich Egyptian glory, listening to Fleur sing her husband's eyes…" 

They'd have to shake her to get her to continue. "What, more? Haven't you heard enough? I can't describe it, I tell you. It was something you had to experience. You had to be there to really KNOW." But she'd try anyway, if only to remind herself in the process. 

Eventually, the river song spread out to become a mighty lake, deep and blue and cold, rimmed by mountains. And there the water was left behind, as the song picked up and began to soar, as though an eagle had taken that moment to sweep across the mirrored surface of that lake, glorious wings skimming the water, leaving chilly ripples in its wake. 

"And up it climbed," Hermione would explain, "higher and higher, until you thought your heart would break, and then it would go even higher, until you thought your mind would shatter, and then higher, until you were certain nothing else had ever existed but that one… note." She'd shiver, remembering. "I don't know what that note was, but it must have been something brilliant. Or terrible." A pause. "I think it was his death." Another pause. "I can't be sure, of course. But if I had to guess, that's what I'd say." 

But then, she'd continue, when you were sure the note would last forever, it began to drop, to circle downwards, downy feathers fluffing out until the eagle came to roost in its massive nest, high up near the roof of the world. "This was the easiest piece to understand," Hermione would say, unable to resist a grin. "The lonesome wail of that last note melted down into a melody of… hominess. It made you feel warm and protected, like the chicks in the nest, cuddling up to be fed." She'd laugh. "That was the children, you see. His little unborn children. He'd fathered them unknowingly, but they were just as much a part of him as he of them." Her eyes would go distant. "None of us wanted that part to end. It was so perfect. We wanted to live in that nest, surrounded by that song." A nod. "I understood why Fleur loved him so much, listening to that melody." 

"After a while, the song grew up. The children faded into the background, and the nest disappeared, and it sounded like honey poured into a golden goblet, on a table laden with cream puff pastries and puddings and every kind of delicious thing you could think of. Ron told me he heard the smell of mince pie. I don't know if I heard that smell particularly, but I DID get essence of marmalade on scones, and I remember it made my stomach growl." She'd laugh. "We must have made a lovely sight - three young nothings drooling over the notes of a song. I'm sure Isis was secretly laughing at us." 

_What did that part of the song mean?_ her audience would ask, before she could get off track. 

"Oh, haven't you guessed?" she'd say, feigning surprise. "That was love! And I'll tell you, you've never experienced love until you've heard it sung by a veela. It was so rich, so nourishing. It made you feel like you could live on love; as though the notes of the song could somehow give you all the sustenance you would ever need." She paused, then added in a quieter voice, "That was when we all noticed the sarcophagus." 

_What happened?_

"It started to glow. This brilliant, streaming light, like sunbeams piercing through fog. It was dazzling. We couldn't look at it directly, but at the same time we couldn't look away. Your eye was drawn to that light, and you wanted to dive in. It was so warm and inviting…" 

She'd sigh, close her eyes, and continue. "His hand appeared first. It took us all by surprise; I think I screamed a bit. All of a sudden, these fingers just shot up out of the coffin and curled over the edge, white-knuckled and straining…" 

She'd stop then, unable to describe the scene. How the hand had been joined by another on the other side of the coffin. How a head of long ginger hair slowly appeared over the rim of the sarcophagus, atop a neck that sloped into shoulders that were corded with the effort of climbing hand over hand out of the Underworld. Next came the chest, clothed in loose Egyptian linen, and the hips, in rugged khaki. The legs soon followed, and one swung over the side of the sarcophagus to set a bare, shaking foot on the solid ground of Isis' throne room. The other soon followed, and the lanky figure collapsed on the flagstones that surrounded the sarcophagus, breathing heavily, muscles twitching and moist from exertion. 

"It was him," she'd whisper at last, still awed, even after so many years. "It was really him. I could tell, even without seeing his face. This man was Bill, and he was alive." A shaky smile. "It was a miracle." 

_What about Fleur?_ they'd ask. _What did she say when she saw him!_

Hermione's brow would furrow. She'd clench her hands on the arms of her chair, then fold them in her lap. She'd look out the window as if examining the weather, then her eyes would shift back to her audience. 

"That was the worst bit," she'd murmur. "That was the bit that broke our hearts. You see, she didn't see him. Not yet." A swallow. "And then he looked at her." 

*****************

Fleur had never felt so alive. Bill's Song poured over her lips like breath; how could Isis have said this would be difficult? This was the easiest thing she'd ever done. The light that surrounded her seeped into her skin, only to be recycled and turned into Song. It was as natural as rain, evaporated from a glacial lake and condensed into a sky full of clouds. She felt as though her very soul were being reborn. 

She was only vaguely aware of movement near the sarcophagus; the Song was all encompassing. It filled her pores and flowed in and out of her like water through a sieve. She was certain she was glowing. 

Then, the Song ended. It surprised her as much as anyone. The final note was a long one, and squeezed her lungs for their last ounce of breath. It tapered off slowly, and when she snuck a breath to continue, she realized that there was nothing more to sing. When she opened her eyes, she discovered the light which had surrounded her had disappeared entirely, reabsorbed into her body and then recycled into Song. The final vestiges of that last note trebled in the air, echoing off the ivory columns and ringing against the gold detailing of the walls, but there was nothing left to take their place when they faded. 

She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. It was done. 

"Fleur?" 

Her eyes snapped open. 

The figure crumpled beside the stone sarcophagus was thinner than she remembered, and paler than normal. His hair was loose and hung about his shoulders in a soft, terra cotta curtain. He was propped on one arm, his loose shirt hanging open at the throat and exposing most of his smooth, bare chest. He looked exhausted. 

But those eyes…. 

She couldn't speak. She had just spent the last… She didn't even KNOW how long she'd been singing, and now that she was faced with the object of her quest, she couldn't even speak. Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. 

The figure pushed himself up into a sitting position and leaned against the coffin, panting, eyes focused on her with bone piercing intensity, as if seeing her in sunlight after spending hours in a dark tunnel. Fleur found herself shaking, not only from relief, but from fear; fear that he might find some imperfection with her and fling himself back into the Underworld rather than stay. 

"Fleur, is that you?" he asked in breathless disbelief. 

All she could do was nod. 

"H…How…?" He looked around, then back to her. "Fleur, what happened…?" 

The world turned blurry as tears sprang to her eyes. "Bill…!" she croaked, and threw herself at him, stumbling across the marble floor to collapse against his chest, sobbing. "Bill, Bill, my Bill! _Mon coeur! Vous avez été allés tellement longtemps…!_" 

Strong arms curled around her waist, and they felt so good she almost lost her mind. The only thing keeping her sane was the knowledge that this was BILL. He was solid and he was real and he was ALIVE and BREATHING and oh GOD, she had missed him. Missed him so much…! 

"Fleur…," he breathed against her shoulder, his long fingers combing through her hair. "Fleur, My God… You're so beautiful…" 

Fleur laughed through her tears, holding him even tighter. "So are you," she whispered hoarsely, burying her face in his shoulder. 

She felt him nuzzling her hair, kissing the space behind her ear. It all felt like a glorious dream. Gone were the nightmares that had plagued her for so long as she relived his death over and over. She never wanted to wake from this dream; never wanted the real world to touch them ever again. 

"My Goddess…" 

Fleur raised her head, and looked into Bill's eyes. His eyes… They were so gentle, so full of love. "I am not your goddess," she whispered, cupping his face between her palms and struggling to speak despite her beaming smile. "I am your wife. Oh Bill… I came zo far to find you…!" 

She pressed her face into his throat, luxuriating in the movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, delighting in the rush of his breath against her hair. She opened her eyes to gaze at his shoulder, where her hand was resting, and marveled at the play of his muscles under her palm. He was radiant, infused with new life. She could almost see him glowing. 

It took her fully a minute to realize Bill was not the one glowing. It was her. 

Fleur sat back, pushing away from him with such force, he almost fell over. She stared at her hands, which were indeed glowing. They seemed to sparkle with an internal radiance, as though she was lit from within with starlight. A hand went to her hair and brought a few shimmering tresses over her shoulder. They were silky as gossamer and the color of molten silver, and flowed through her fingers like water. Swallowing, she raised her hands to her face. Skin that had been perfect was now absolutely flawless, and smooth as satin. Her lips were soft and moist. Even her teary eyes were immaculate; they didn't even feel hot. 

A slow, creeping horror had begun to build in her stomach. "No…," she whispered, slowly backing away from Bill, her hands running all over her body, feeling where her few flaws had been smoothed away. "No, zis iz not possible. Zis iz not 'appening!" 

She glanced fearfully to the side, searching out her friends for help, but they weren't there. "No!" she cried, scrambling to her feet. "No! Please!" 

"You said you were willing to be worshipped, child." 

The soft voice in her ear made Fleur spin around, eyes wild. Isis stood there, serene as ever, though there was a touch of sadness in her eyes. "Not zis!" Fleur begged, holding out her smooth arms as evidence. "Please, not zis! Do not make me a Veela!" 

"You were already a Veela, child. Your blood was simply diluted. This is nothing that did not exist before, just below the surface." 

"I DO NOT WANT IT!" Fleur wailed. "My Bill… He will not zee me like zis! He will not zee 'is Fleur. I will be a stranger to 'im!" 

"He has already recognized you, young one. He has said your name." 

"But he DOES NOT KNOW ME!" She was growing more and more hysterical by the moment. "Please! Anyzing! Anyzing but zis!" 

Isis slowly shook her immaculate head. "I am sorry, child, but this is how it must be. No average mortal can sing the Song ; they must possess a quality that makes them superhuman." She touched a delicate hand to Fleur's tear-streaked cheek. "This is your quality, Fleur, and it has brought back the man you love. Be content." 

A movement by her feet made Fleur look down. Blinking away her tears, she saw Bill pressing his forehead against the top of her foot, his long hair falling around his face. "My Goddess," she heard him murmur in awe. "My Goddess…." 

A slow wail bubbled up in her throat, and she collapsed to the floor beside him. "Not zis…," she whispered, heartbroken, as she stroked his hair. "Oh, my Bill… Please… I am not a goddess. I am jus' your Fleur." She drew in a shaking breath, and leaned forward to bury her face between his shoulder blades. "I am jus' your Fleur…" 

She knew from the way he kissed her ankle that he didn't hear a word. 

  
  
_TBC…_

  
_Merci, ma déesse! Je ne peux pas rembourser…!_: "Thank you, my goddess! I cannot repay…!"  
_Vous avez été allés tellement longtemps…! _: "You have been gone so long…! 

**Author's Note:** Hi again, everyone! Sorry this has taken SO long to post. I've been strapped for time, as so often happens, and my fic writing got put on the back burner for a while. But I have NOT forgotten this story! I hope to have the next chapter up much quicker than this one, but don't hold me to that. I'll try my hardest! 


	9. Chapter 8 Striking a Bargain

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 8: Striking a Bargain_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne 

_For disclaimer and rating information, see chapter one_

_This chapter is dedicated to Woman of the Dunedain, who has been asking for me to continue this story for so long. Thank you for being so patient!_

* * *

"NO!" 

Hermione could not keep the cry of heartbroken outrage to herself as she watched Fleur slowly crumble to the floor, weeping. Without thought, the younger witch tried to run towards her friend, only to find herself rebuffed by an invisible wall that left her sprawled on the ground at Ron's feet. 

"What's going on?" the young man asked as he helped her to stand again. Harry came forward to join them, and all three stared in horror at the sad reunion taking place on the other side of the transparent barrier. 

"She has paid the price for tampering with the will of Osiris," the calm, tranquil voice of Isis said from behind them. The trio turned as one to see the darkly beautiful goddess gliding forward to stand level with them at the barrier. 

"You never told us this would happen!" Hermione exclaimed, not caring that she was shouting at a god. "You should have said something!" Hot tears burned in her eyes. 

Isis quietly endured the young witch's scolding. "Had I given Fleur warning, would she have left the Song unsung?" the goddess asked softly, her fathoms-deep eyes touching each of the three in turn, and leaving them in no doubt as to the answer. 

"No," Harry answered for them all, his voice hollow. "She would have sung it anyway. But perhaps it wouldn't have hurt so much after the fact," he added, though there was little venom in the statement. 

Isis nodded sagely, and turned her attention back to the couple curled up on the floor by the sarcophagus. "Foreknowledge may have eased the pain, that is true," she agreed, "but it would have tainted the Song, and there would have been no reunion over which to weep or rejoice." Bowing her regal head, she continued, "You must learn, young ones, that there are very few true miracles. All things must have their price. There must be balance to the world, or it will dissolve into chaos." 

It was the truth, and yet the realization did little to ease the pain they each felt. Hermione found herself pondering the cruel irony of the situation; Fleur was now the most beautiful creature alive, perhaps the most breathtaking veela Hermione herself had ever seen. It was something Hermione - and indeed, every witch back to the dawn of time - had wished for all her life. And yet the shimmering witch crouched beside the coffin would gladly have traded every shred of her beauty to have her life back to what it had been three months ago, when Bill had still loved her despite her beauty, not because of it. 

"Why can't we reach her?" Hermione heard herself say, her eyes riveted to the pitiful tableau next to the sarcophagus. Fleur had Bill cradled in her arms and was weeping softly into his hair, while her husband held her tightly, a smile of rapturous delight painted across his face. "I tried to earlier, but something kept me back." 

"A respite," Isis replied with a nod. "A veil, through which you can see the events with clarity." 

"What do you mean?" 

"Were the curtain not here, you would be as Bill is. You would not see Fleur. You would see only the veela she has become." Isis turned her mystical gaze on the three friends and smiled sadly. "I felt it only right that there be witnesses here to view her sacrifice and know it for what it truly is. The Fleur you once knew is dead now. Only this Fleur remains." 

A beautiful, grieving, shimmering vision of misery. Hermione found herself wishing Isis had not been so thoughtful. She could have lived her entire life blissfully unaware that the young veela had forfeited anything, rather than experience these few minutes of pain on her behalf. 

"I wonder what the children will be like," she heard Ron muse quietly behind her after a few moments had passed. 

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, as much trying to fill the unhappy silence as from any real interest. 

"They would have been only one-eighth veela before all this," Ron explained. "I was just wondering if… well, if they'd be half veela now or what." Hermione felt him shrug. "Never mind. It was stupid. I was just wondering." 

Hermione couldn't resist a smile, though only a small one. It was just like Ron to be thinking about such seemingly inane things during a time of crisis. It was his defense mechanism. 

"Will they love her?" 

Harry had said it, but it didn't sound like his voice. He sounded younger, like the boy with broken glasses Hermione had first met on the Hogwart's Express all those years ago. When she looked at him, she saw that his eyes were clear as he watched the pair beyond the transparent wall. "Of course they will," she murmured, a little shocked that Harry could suggest otherwise. "She's their mother." 

"No she's not." 

"Harry, what are you talking about?" 

"She said that Fleur was dead now," Harry said, his voice aging again, taking on a sharp tone as he gestured towards Isis. "Only this Fleur remains, isn't that right?" He addressed the question to the goddess. "This perfect Fleur." 

Isis bowed her head in acknowledgement. 

"It's not fair," Harry growled between grated teeth, green eyes glowing with suppressed ire as he stared past Fleur and Bill, into the cavernous distance of the throne room. "They should know their parents, not these shells who look like them." 

"Fleur made the choice-" Hermione began, laying a hand on his shoulder to soothe his raw nerves, but Harry knocked her hand away. 

"Yes!" he barked, glaring at her. "FLEUR made the choice, not the children! They're as much a part of this scenario as Bill or Fleur. Didn't you hear the song? Didn't you hear THEM? They're PART of this charlatan miracle, not some side effect that can be dealt with later. They deserve a say in how it all happens!" 

Hermione shared a look with Ron. "Harry," the red-haired young man said carefully, taking a tentative step towards his friend. "Calm down, mate. You're talking crazy." 

"Am I?" Harry snapped, eyes switching between the two of them like their heads were ping-pong balls in play. "What would either of you know? You haven't lost YOUR parents. And even if you did - even if you lost them right now - you could at least say you KNEW them. You'd have memories, family photographs, stories to tell your children. You'd have THEM." He took a blazing step towards them, and Hermione was surprised to find herself stumbling backwards to get away from that green fire in his eyes. 

"I had a year with my parents, and it won't ever be enough," he said, voice soft and dangerous as potion smoke. "These children - Fleur and Bill's children - wouldn't even have THAT." 

"But… Fleur and Bill…," Hermione ventured nervously. "I mean… they're THERE. They're alive. Harry, they'd still have their parents." 

"No they wouldn't," Harry argued, thankfully turning the full brunt of his eyes away from her and onto the couple curled up beside the sarcophagus. "Those aren't their parents. That's a veela and her sycophant. Those aren't the people who loved each other like crazy, who would have loved their children like they were the center of the world." He shook his head, his eyes unmoving. "It's not right." 

Hermione wanted to reach out and take his hand comfortingly in hers, but resisted the urge. He looked as though he'd snap her wrist if she tried. "I know, Harry," she agreed quietly. "It's awful. None of it's fair. But what's done is done. And Bill's back - he's alive and safe again. Let's be thankful for what we have, without inviting more pain because of what we're missing. We can't change it." 

"Why not?" 

"What?" 

He looked at her again, and now his eyes were cool as glacial pools. "Why can't we change things?" 

When she didn't answer right away, Ron filled the silence. "It's impossible, Harry," he said, coming up behind Hermione and rubbing her arms soothingly. "Whatever you're suggesting, it's impossible." 

"Is it? Twenty minutes ago, I would have said bringing a man back from the dead was impossible. But I'm obviously wrong, because I see one right there." He jabbed an angry finger in Bill's direction, then turned in Isis' direction. "You're a goddess," he demanded. "Do something." 

Hermione held her breath, waiting for a reaction from the deity. She had been nothing but gentle until now, but Harry was pushing the immortal in directions Hermione was certain were not meant to be pursued. The retribution for overstepping the mark was probably horrific, but Harry didn't seem to mind. 

Rather than turning into a whirlwind of righteous anger, Isis bowed her head. "What would you have me do, Harry Potter?" 

"Let the children speak. Let them decide if they want this to happen." 

"The children are unborn." 

"Then alter time. Wave your hands and twiddle your nose and snap your fingers and make them appear. Read some bloody tea leaves. You're a GODDESS. Think of something!" 

Hermione felt Ron take her hand and squeeze it for dear life. He was obviously thinking the same as her - that any moment, Isis was going to reach out and snap Harry's neck like a piece of straw. But the goddess merely reached out and laid a tender hand on the young man's untamed hair. 

"Your anger pours through you as water through cloth, child," she murmured in her voice like a bell; dark, fathomless eyes searched his face. "But this is not your family, and they are not your parents. What is done here cannot change the life you have suffered." 

Harry stared up at her, unblinking. "You're wrong," he said quietly, voice like a ripple of heat across a desert landscape. "They ARE my family." He bowed his head now, his anger finally collapsing under the weight of her love. "Please..." 

For a long moment, Isis did nothing but stroke his hair. 

Then, raising her hand from his head, she threw it out to the side, fingers splayed, palm turned towards Fleur and Bill. 

"**SPEAK**," she said, her voice quiet but thunderous, like the movement of currents beneath the surface of the ocean. 

A pink mist began to form around the immortal's hand. It spiraled up her arm, then spread out down her body until she was cloaked in a fine, thin veil of coral smoke. Isis closed her eyes but her body remained rigid, as the vapor began to whirl and snap around her, as though tossed by a stormy wind. 

Time seemed to stop. Hours or minutes might have passed. Perhaps it had been years while Hermione watched in awe as the goddess Isis, mother of Horus, who had sewn her husband's body back together for love, listened to the fog. 

Then it was over. One moment, the mist was there. The next, it was not. Hermione shook herself out of the reverie that held her, and blinked dry eyes. 

"What was that?" Ron asked, his voice hoarse, as though he hadn't swallowed in an age. 

Isis lowered her hand. "The children have spoken," she said, and bowed her head. "The bargain is struck." 

"What bargain?" Hermione asked, but Isis didn't answer. "What bargain!" 

"Oh my god," Ron murmured, and squeezed her shoulder. "Look." 

Hermione followed his gaze, through the transparent barrier towards the sarcophagus and its unhappy couple. 

And she gasped.   
  
_TBC…._

* * *

_AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am SO SORRY this story has taken me so long to update. Life has been rough lately, and I didn't seem to have the energy, nor the creative inclinations, to write anything, let alone complete a story that gave me chronic writers block. Rest assured, I have read all your comments and have taken each plea for more chapters to heart. I haven't been ignoring you! I hope that I can wrap this story up in a satisfactory fashion, and give you all something that you'll enjoy. It won't be long now, I PROMISE. Thank you so much for sticking with this story (or finding it for the first time, if that's the case). I hope you will enjoy the last few chapters as much as I've enjoyed writing them. Thank you! **-M**_


	10. Chapter 9 Little Miracles

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Chapter 9: Little Miracles_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne

* * *

Fleur dwelt in an island of misery, while Bill kissed the toes of her shoes and murmured prayers to her beauty. Her pristine white suit - white as ice and the hottest flame of any fire - was smeared with red earth and centuries old dust, but no amount of soil could tarnish her in his eyes. 

Her Bill - the real Bill - would have laughed and called her a raggedy princess. 

This Bill moaned and called her his goddess. 

She wept. The tears, which had come hot and fast minutes ago, were now slow and painful, each one lodging in her throat like a stone. It was ridiculous; selfish, and she knew it. Bill was back with her, and who else in life had that gift? How many women would give everything they had to have their husbands back in their arms again, regardless of their condition? How many lovers, parents, children, friends… 

"Oh, Bill," she croaked, running slender, pearly fingers through his soft ginger mane. "Iz zis really 'ow we are meant to be?" 

"Mama?" 

Fleur's head jerked up, and her eyes widened. 

Two young girls stood before her. They looked to be no older than ten years of age, and the similarities of their faces could only mean they were twins. The one to the right had soft strawberry blonde hair that fell in an opalescent cascade to her tailbone. The other child had hair as white as lily petals against snow, and a faint speckling of freckles across her otherwise perfect complexion. Both had pixie faces, with perfect bow mouths, and long feathery lashes that framed blue-black charcoal eyes. 

"'Oo are you?" Fleur gasped, unconsciously scrambling away from the girls, until her back pressed against the sarcophagus. "What are you doing 'ere!" 

The paler girl held out a calming hand toward the veela. "Please don't be afraid, Mama," she said, a small smile tugging at her rosebud lips. "This is what we wanted." 

Fleur's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What you wan…? What are you talking about? 'Oo are you!" she demanded, fixing them with her most piercing veela stare. 

They weren't even phased. 

"I'm Aurora," the freckled one with the white, white hair replied. 

"And I'm Autumn," the other - with the shimmering hair like fine pink silk against her alabaster skin - added. 

"Don't you know us?" they asked in unison, their blue-black eyes deep as trenches in the darkest sea. 

Fleur stared, realization dawning slowly across her face. "No," she whispered, shaking her head faintly, one hand stealing up to cover her mouth. "No, eet eez not possible…" 

Aurora knelt in front of her, and Fleur's eyes followed her with shocked disbelief. "It's going to be all right now, Mama," she said, reaching out to pat the veela's knee. "We can all go home." 

"She said so," Autumn agreed. 

"She… Who?" Fleur felt as though she were floundering against an irrepressible tide. "How…" 

"Your daughters made their wishes known to me, Fleur Delacour-Weasley." The ageless voice of Isis surrounded the family like a blanket, and then the goddess was there, standing behind Autumn like a fairy godmother, one hand on the little girl's shoulder. "I agreed." 

"My… My children?" This was all too much. Fleur's eyes kept switching between the twins, unable to settle, unwilling to believe. "But… But 'ow iz zis possible? Zey are not born yet!" Her hand flew to her stomach. 

Her hand. A normal hand. The shimmering skin was gone, replaced by the soft ivory she'd known all her life. 

Terror filled her eyes, and she stared in horror up at Isis. "What 'ave you done to my babies!" she demanded. 

A cool hand on her cheek drew her attention back to the young girl in front of her. "Don't be angry with us, Mama," Aurora murmured, and now there were tears on her lashes and she was biting her lip. "But we wanted you to be happy. And we wanted daddy to be happy. And it's not really so bad, when you think about it. We still get to be your little girls." 

"Please be happy," Autumn pleaded, pulling away from Isis and scrambling to cuddle up next to Fleur against the sarcophagus. "We want you to be happy." 

"Your children have each elected to give up ten years of their life for their father," Isis intoned gently. "In exchange, for that time, all shall be as it was. You and Bill shall be as you were. It is their wish, and I have granted it." She bowed her graceful head. "Your family is whole." 

Fleur couldn't speak. The room was spinning, but whether that was from confusion, or from some element of the powerful magics at work here, she couldn't be sure. Autumn and Aurora curled up next to her, each snuggling under an arm, and she held onto them for dear life. 

"You're not mad at us, are you, Mama?" Autumn murmured, peering up at her mother with nervous eyes. 

Fleur gazed down at her, still unable to believe who they were and what had happened. "Mad at you?" she whispered, feeling fresh tears burning in her throat. "My babies… 'Ow could I ever be mad at you?" Lowering her face, she nuzzled Autumn's rosy tresses, then turned to the other side to kiss Aurora's smooth brow. Tears pooled around her lips, and she pulled away quickly, reaching up to wipe the spot dry with her sleeve. 

"My sweetlings, you should never have made zis choice," she murmured, closing her eyes and resting her head against the sarcophagus. "It iz too much for you to give." 

"Fleur?" 

Her eyes snapped open. 

Bill was sitting up, straightening out of his penitent position at her feet. One long-fingered hand was pressed to his temple, as if he were trying to still an earthquake in his skull. "What happened?" he asked, squinting at her. "Last I remember…" 

His eyes widened, and he dragged himself towards her. "Go!" he exclaimed. "Go! You've got to get out! He's here!" 

Fleur held out her hand to him, trying to calm his outburst, but the soothing hand of Isis reached him first, resting on his shoulder and stemming his cries. "There is no need for fear, Bill Weasley," the goddess said with a smile, black eyes shining. "Your family is safe. All here are safe, under my protection." 

Bill gazed over his shoulder at the goddess. "Ex…cuse me, but who are you?" he asked carefully. 

Isis laughed. Never in her life had Fleur heard anything so beautiful. 

Except, perhaps what she heard next. 

"Daddy." 

"Daddy!" 

The two little girls encircled in her arms burrowed their way out of her embrace and barreled into their father, almost knocking him over. "Daddy!" they squealed in joy, hugging him tightly. 

Bill looked at the little girls in utter confusion, before looking up at Fleur once more. "Fleur…?" he inquired softly. "What's going on?" 

Fleur couldn't answer. All she could do was throw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck and holding him as though her very life depended on it. 

"Bill…," she whispered, her hands frantically seeking purchase all over his back as she tried to feel all of him at once. "Bill, Bill, my Bill… _mon coeur_… I 'ave been so lost wizout you…!"

* * *

"The twenty years are final," Isis explained to Hermione as they watched the happy reunion between Ron and his brother, with Harry standing on the sidelines, beaming like a proud father himself. "Sundown on this day, twenty years from now, Bill Weasley will die. He will move on to the next world, and he will not come back." 

Hermione nodded. "I understand." She looked up at the goddess. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked. "Shouldn't you tell Fleur?" 

Isis shook her head and met her eyes. "There is no need," she replied. "Fleur already knows. In her heart she knows. Just as her children know. Just as you yourself knew, even before I told you." The goddess looked back to the joyous scene beside the sarcophagus. "And once they leave here, they will forget. This day will seem like nothing more than a dream, and when they rejoin the world above, it will seem as though this has always been. Bill has always lived, and the children have always been there." 

Hermione looked down, and focused on the dusty toes of her shoes. "You say they," she murmured. "Why?" 

"Why do you ask questions, child, when you know the answer?" The goddess smiled down on her, though it was a smile touched with sadness. "History cannot be rewritten. It can only be fooled. But to do so, there must be one who knows the truth. Truth cannot be denied." 

"That's the secret, isn't it?" Hermione said with a nod to the room around her. "How you were able to keep this place a myth for so long. The enchantment you cast, to make people lose interest, to make them walk away. Because you were the only one who knew it was true. You were it's Secret Keeper." 

"No, child." 

Hermione frowned. "But…" 

Isis stroked Hermione's hair. "There was always destined to be one who found this place, who sang the song. THAT person was the Secret Keeper of the Song of Osiris." She looked back to where Fleur was settled in Bill's lap, hugging him as tightly as she had from the start. "Mortals know only the here and now. Gods walk through time like a curtain. Whether a person exists today or will not exist for ten thousand years, that person WILL exist, and they are just as real as the earth on which we stand." 

Hermione let that sink in. "Am I to be the Secret Keeper of this then?" she asked quietly. "Am I the Secret Keeper of the Singing?" 

Isis nodded. 

"Why me?" 

"Because, child, it was always meant to be you." 

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed. "That's very interesting to know," she said, opening her eyes to look back at the goddess. "But I'd rather like to know WHY me." 

Isis laughed softly. "I apologize, child," she said, and gestured once more to the group across the room. 

"A Wife, a Husband, their Children, a Brother, and an Orphan," Isis narrated, her fingers moving to each figure in turn as she named them. "Each one has gone through horrors and pain to reach this point, some worse than others, all tied together by their griefs. Were any of them to know the status of things as they truly were, and what had to be done to make them what they will become…" 

Isis trailed off, allowing Hermione to finish the thought. It was not difficult to do. She pictured Fleur, silently counting down the seconds until her husband died again; crippling herself with sorrow. She pictured Bill, struggling to repay the gifts that had been given him, and falling into depression when he decided no feat could ever equal the sacrifices that had been made on his behalf. Autumn and Aurora, growing up without a childhood. Knowing there were no baby pictures because they had never been babies. Ron, scared to death of losing his brother again; terrified of what that loss would do to his family, since he had already seen it once before. And Harry, who had seen a man brought back to life, but who could never do the same for his own parents. 

"I guess it has to be me," Hermione finally admitted, nodding faintly. 

"Do you know why?" 

She nodded again, stronger this time. "Because I'm the only one who's seeing this," she said, pointing to the sarcophagus again. Bill had his family wrapped in a huge bear hug. Autumn and Aurora were squealing with delight, while Fleur laughed like a chime and dropped feathery kisses all over her husband's face. Ron was laughing, tickling his nieces and making them laugh even harder, and Harry watched it all with the satisfied eyes of a man who knew he'd done the right thing. 

"It'll be hard," she murmured, lowering her hand. "I don't want to remember, but at least, seeing this - seeing all of them - I can know that it was worth it." She smiled, and tears that she hadn't known were there spilled down her cheeks. "If it wasn't worth it, I don't think I'd feel this happy." 

They were quiet for a minute, watching the scene unfold before them. 

"Isis?" 

"Yes, child?" 

"What about Voldemort? Won't he come after Bill again?" 

The deity shook her dark head. "He, like the others - like all those in the world above - will forget." Her wise eyes shifted to Hermione's face. "As much as he may style himself one, the Dark Wizard is not a god." 

Hermione nodded, satisfied. "They'll be safe, then?" 

"They will all be safe." 

"And what will happen to this place now that the Song has been sung?" 

"There are as many Songs as there are souls, Hermione Granger. Someday the Song will again have cause to be sung, when another Secret Keeper discovers its hiding place. Until then, it will again fade to legend." 

"What if I can't keep myself from telling someone, Isis? What if I break the spell? I don't…want to cause anyone any pain." 

"My child." The goddess bent down and placed a kiss on Hermione's forehead. "Tell the story as often as you wish. You cannot break the spell. But you will never make believers of your audience. They will hear only shadows and smoke. The Secret Keepers of the gods are not bound by the same laws as the Secret Keepers of your mortal world." 

"Oh…" Hermione bit her lip. "May I… join them now?" she asked. "Before we go up and they all forget? I want to remember this as vividly as…as I remember everything else." 

Isis inclined her head in ascent. Not sure what else to do when saying goodbye to an immortal, Hermione bobbed a little curtsey in respect, then hurried over to the pile of reunited Weasleys (plus one Harry Potter). 

Ron grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down into his lap to sit on the ground by the sarcophagus, making her squeal. "Ron!" she exclaimed, slapping him on the arm even as she laughed. "Don't be rude!" 

He was beaming at her, ignoring her protests. "He's back, 'Mione," he said, hugging her tightly and burying his face in her shoulder. "Mum's going to be so happy to see him." 

Hermione smiled and stroked his hair. "I know," she murmured, kissing behind his ear and resting her cheek against his head. "I know." 

She caught Harry's eye, and he nodded at her. Something in his eyes made her believe he knew what would happen when the throne room melted away, and they each found themselves back in the Burrow, or in a small home outside of Thebes, or scouring the hills of Transylvania on the trail of a madman. She smiled and held out her hand to him, which he took without a word. She squeezed his fingers. 

"I'll see you later," she mouthed. 

He smiled, nodded, and the room disappeared in a swirl of eternity. 

_To be concluded…_


	11. Epilogue Secrets Kept

**TITLE:** The Osiris Song  
_Epilogue: Secrets Kept_  
**AUTHOR:** Mnemosyne

* * *

**CHRISTMAS, TEN YEARS LATER**

It was always at the end when she lost them. Young and old alike would sit in rapt attention as Hermione spun the tale of Fleur Delacour and the Osiris Song. They would sniffle when she described Bill's death. They would listen with vindictive glee as she described the veela's torture of Peter Pettigrew. They would gasp when she took them deep into the caverns of time, and showed them the face of a goddess. 

Then they'd walk away. 

Something would distract them. A call to dinner, perhaps, or a sudden remembered appointment. Children would start to squirm and their parents would apologize, but really, they must be getting on. And by the time the end came, there was no one there to hear it. 

Secret Keeper to the gods,Hermione thought, as she tidied up Mrs. Weasley's tea things after another family gathering. I should change my name to Cassandra.

"'Ermione?' 

She spun around, knocking a teacup over in its saucer and spilling what remained of its contents all over her tablecloth. "Fleur!" she exclaimed, trying her best to surreptitiously clean up the mess. "Where are Bill and the girls?" 

"Wiz _Mere_ Weasley, in zee living room," the veela answered with a smile. "Would you like zome 'elp wiz zat?" 

Hermione considered saying no, but something made her change her mind. "Yes, actually, that would be wonderful." 

Fleur gave her another stunning smile, pulled a slender wand from her sleeve, pointed it at the table, and said, "_Proprerium_." 

With a swirl, the teacup had righted itself and the tablecloth had whisked itself off the table, down the hall, and chucked itself into the laundry hamper in the bathroom. Smiling, Hermione took out her own wand, flicked it toward the table and said, "_Lavagia_!" 

A sopping wet sponge appeared, gave the table a good scrubbing, and disappeared. 

"Thank you," Hermione said, tucking her wand away. "Do you want to rejoin the others now?" 

"Not jus' yet, _si vous ples_. I wish to speak wiz you about somezing which I wonder about." 

"Oh. Yes, all right." Hermione gestured to a nearby chair. "How's little Isabel?" she asked as Fleur settled in. "Looking forward to her first Christmas?" 

"She iz squalling more zan usual, zo I zink zee answer iz _oui_," Fleur answered with a laugh. "Bill keeps asking when we will be 'aving a boy, but I tell 'im zat veela children are almost always girls. 'E insists we keep trying. I do not mind." Her eyes sparkled. 

Hermione laughed and sat down opposite the other woman. Even today, ten years since the events surrounding the Osiris Song, the veela was stunning. Age hardly seemed to touch her, though her face had matured into an even more elegant beauty. "I think Ron and I have our hands full enough with Harry," she quipped, thinking fondly of her little three year old with the grown man's lungs. "Ron's convinced he's going to grow up to be like Fred or George, which wouldn't surprise me in the least." 

They chatted amiably for a while, swapping stories about what it was like to be a modern witch raising a family and holding down a career, the price of children's robes, the infuriating ability of their husbands to always be absent at THE most inconvenient times. It had been a long time since the pair had gotten to chat on such a candid level, surrounded as they always were by a gaggle of Weasleys and their enormous broods of children. 

"I was wondering, 'Ermione," Fleur finally said, after taking a sip of a fresh cup of tea. "About zee story you tell about me. Zee Osiris Song." 

Hermione tried not to choke on her own tea. "What about it?" she asked, carefully setting down her teacup and folding her hands in her lap. 

"I wuz jus' wondering…" The veela trailed off for a moment, then met her eyes. "Zee stories you tell about zee uzzers - about 'Arry and 'is super broom, and Ron and zee talking badger… Oh, and zee very funny one about Neville and zee angry goat." She laughed softly. "I like zat one very much." She tilted her head, giving the younger witch a quizzical smile. "I wuz jus' wondering why it iz you make my story zo… sad. When you make zee uzzers zo 'appy and funny. I know zey are all _fiction_-" 

"Actually, the one about Neville is true." 

"-but it iz zomezing zat 'as always made me wonder. 'Earing you tell it tonight, for zee children, it made me want to ask." 

Hermione thought hard for a moment. Here was something she'd never thought about. It had never occurred to her what to say to Fleur - or indeed any of the people who might choose to ask - should this question arise. She had acted too long under the assumption that no one would bother to ask. 

"It's… hard to explain, Fleur," she said after a minute, trying to buy a little more time for her brain to think up an explanation. "People just… like tales of adventure like that one. They like stories about true love, and death, and glory, and gods, and second chances, and hope rekindled. They like to think anything is possible, even in the darkest times. That's what Harry's always said. That's what he said got him through every day until he killed Voldemort. It's what gets everyone through every day." 

"But why me? Why not yourzelf?" 

"Well, if you're going to talk about true love, Fleur," Hermione quipped, thinking fast on her feet, "who better to cast as your main character than a veela? It's hard enough writing the story - at least this way I don't have to make up characters, too." 

Fleur considered her for a moment, and Hermione plastered on her best friendly smile. She didn't know what would happen if Fleur didn't believe her - perhaps Isis would appear out of thin air with a magic wand, sprinkle some fairy dust and erase everyone's memory again. It would be easier, the younger witch decided, than sitting under that gaze for much longer. 

Finally, Fleur grinned. "I understand," she said with a nod. "But I still zink you should 'ave written zee story about you and Ronald. Zat, too, iz true love." 

Hermione resisted the urge to let out a huge sigh of relief. "I'd never hear the end of it," she improvised, as she stood to collect their teacups. "Ron would always complain that HE wanted to be the one doing the rescuing, not me." 

Fleur laughed and stood as well. "Zank you for the tea, 'Ermione," she said. "Will you be coming zoon to zee tree? Fred's little Georgie was putting up quite a fuss when I left, wanting to open 'is presents." 

Hermione chuckled. "I'll be right along. I just want to finish tidying up in here, first. Mrs. Weasley has enough on her hands without cleaning up after everyone all the time." 

Fleur nodded. "You mus' tell me zee ending of zee story sometime, 'Ermione. I always seem to miss it, zo I never find out 'ow it all ends." 

Hermione waved a hand. "I won't bother you. It's a load of rubbish. Not very good at all, if you ask me. I'll rework it and tell you the revised version someday." 

"What iz it now?" 

_Your eldest children give up their youth and your husband will die in another ten years, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it._

Hermione smiled. "And they all lived happily ever after," she answered. 

Fleur grinned. "Why, zat iz zee best ending anyone could ever want." She leaned forward and hugged Hermione warmly. "Zank you." 

Before Hermione could say anything, a sharp wail from the doorway made both women turn their heads. Bill stood there with a squalling bundle of blankets nestled in his arms, looking desperate. 

"How many of these have we had?" he asked, as Fleur crossed the room to swoop baby Isabel out of his arms. "Three? You'd think I'd know how to handle them by now." 

"You will learn it someday," Fleur laughed, bouncing the crying baby until her tears turned to gurgles of delight. 

"When we have a boy, I think. Boys I understand. I'll never understand veela women." 

"What makes you zink you will understand veela boys?" Fleur gave him a dazzling grin. "Besides, you understand me well enuff." 

Bill grinned and shook his head. "Never enough." 

"_Oui_, you do." She nestled close to his chest. "You understand zat I love you, and zat is all zere iz to know." 

Hermione watched the scene with soft eyes. THIS, she decided, made harboring her titanic secret worth all the pains and frustration it caused her. Who ever said _Ever After_ ended at death? 

"Coming, Hermione?" Bill asked, rubbing Fleur's back. "Last I saw, baby Harry was using Ron as a stepladder to get at the star on top of the tree, and big Harry was egging him on. Along with big Charlie, big George, big Fred, big Ginny…" 

Hermione laughed at the mental image. "Good grief, not again. I thought Ginny knew better than that?" Sighing - but with an unquenchable smile - she followed them through the door, back to her own happily ever after, and let the future continue to work itself out without her. 

THE END 

**AUTHOR'S END NOTE**: _Well, it's done! I told you it wouldn't be long. ;) I hope you all enjoyed this twisted - and often convoluted - trip into my imagination. Please come again soon! And thank you all for sticking by this story to the bitter end. You are all the best!_


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